Once a Wolf
by Infected with Lupinus
Summary: When stereotyped, we often unintentionally live down to the expectations of others. While living in the Muggle world, Remus Lupin discovers true love, deals with a worsening prejudice and commits his most unredeemable sin.
1. Canto 1: Prologue, Chapter 1

**Once a Wolf  
Written by: infected with lupinus**

**Canto One: The Dark Wood of Error**

First Draft Penned: June 24, 2004  
Revisions: March 4, 2005 (Grammar/Streamlining September 24, 2006)

"Nitimur in vetitum simper, cupimusque negata.  
(We are always striving for things forbidden, and coveting those denied us.)"  
--Ovid

**Prologue**

Some say it was his family name of Lupescu that marked him. Others say it was because he was born from the union of an English witch and a Rumanian Gypsy that he was fated for the bite. Either way, he was but a child of five when the horrid curse imposed itself upon him and from then on sent him and his family into a rapid downward spiral. This is what he knew:

His Mamă Stella Thorndike was eighteen-years-old when she visited Transylvania for the summer, possessing the desire to indulge a passion for chasing dragons. Instead, she found alternative passions stirred when she met Muggle Gypsy Doru Lupescu. Doru captured her heart after rescuing her from an oafish brute attempting to perform unfavourable acts upon her in a Sinaia alleyway.

Tată Doru was Mamă's age and as strong as he was beautiful, which he proved with quick disposal of her offender. He was a perfect gentleman who became inseparable from Mamă during her sabbatical in Rumania. He ushered her around Sinaia, taking her to the best markets, the memorials and museums found in Dimitrie Ghica Park, the Sinaia Monastary with its finely decorated churches, and the ornate and pristine white Peleş Castle which she found as breathtaking as her guide. It took little for him to convince her to venture outside of town for introduction to his family and friends at their campsite in the stunning Prahova Valley.

Mamă was well received by the Lupescu family who were openly pleased at Tată's find in her. They instantly took to teaching her about their culture: stories, dances, how to cook their dishes...more specifically, how to cook Tată's favourite dishes. The young couple was amused by the not-so-subtle hints the family gave but after spending a brief month together they also knew that they were meant to be.

They were married in his lush valley home beneath unfaltering stars by the light of an immense bonfire, the looming Bucegi Mountains as the dramatic backdrop. After the short exchange of vows, the newlyweds honeymooned inside a smaller valley carved deeper into the face of the mountain range. Here, the couloir they took to get inside was also the only exit from the secluded valley. Mamă was in a state of bliss there in her own private paradise with the man she loved and did not want to leave.

During their honeymoon, the couple ignored the one haunting dilemma that they needed to address. When their intimate time together drew to a close after their one allotted week and they rejoined the Lupescu camp, Tată weighed two options in his mind: ask Stella to remain with him and his extended family in the Prahova Valley as was tradition or relocate in far away _Anglia_ where they could start fresh. His decision was made after Mamă announced that she was with child. For Tată there was no compromise: Mamă would need to be with her own family during the pregnancy. Within a few days they left for England.

There, Tată discovered that the British were as hostile toward Româ Gypsies as the Rumanians in his native land were. It was difficult for the couple to gain acceptance in either world, Muggle or wizard. Tată's appearance with his fair skin and hair was passable as Anglo but the name betrayed him. Wanting to better integrate into his new homeland, Tată changed their surname from Lupescu to Lupin. Although proud of his Româ heritage, the new name sounded less ethnic, Tată's objective being to spare his unborn child the intolerance that he himself suffered. The name change would be easier on them all, and he believed his child was less likely to be teased or bullied.

But Mamă's pregnancy was such a difficult one that the midwife ordered her on bedrest untill she gave birth. Alas, Mamă lost the baby at four months in spite of these precautions. The miscarriage devastated the young couple, yet the following year found Mamă again with child. This time everything seemed fine...untill the infant arrived stillborn. The second loss was too much for them to bear and they lost hope that their dream of starting a family would ever be fulfilled. Nevertheless, they continued trying, only to be repeatedly disappointed each month when Mamă saw red.

Finally, in June Mamă discovered she was pregnant for a third time. Both husband and wife rejoiced but met the news with trepidation, anticipating complication and another tragic outcome. But the third pregnancy was a charm and on March 10, 1960, Stella and Doru Lupin at last became parents to a slightly premature baby boy. Due to his great determination to live, Mamă named him Remus in honour of one of Rome's founding siblings.

The good tidings weren't completely met with joy. The Lupescu family became harbingers of doom, voicing their Transylvanian superstitions when told the name of the new addition. It was the equivalent of murder, they prophesied, to name a child after a man raised by a wolf when he already belonged to the _lupi_ since their family name derived from the creatures. They asked Tată if he had strayed so far from his roots to do such a thing and advised him to not forget his old beliefs by tempting Fate's will with a dangerous push. Neither he nor Mamă paid heed to their balefull predictions. Remus' name remained, and since wolves were extinct in England and Transylvania was so far away, there was no need to worry. Such thoughts were petty, even in the Wizarding world.

In spite of the controversy, little Remus grew up in a happy, loving environment surrounded by both family and friends. He romped and played through the English countryside, liked by all, prized by his parents. He was their _mic_ _miracolul_, a blessing from the gods. It was quickly discovered that Remus was a gifted child, able to read at the tender age of two, well ahead of his peers, which sweetened their parental love and fuelled their fierce pride. As most gifted children often do, he exhibited a vivid imagination, coaxing his friends to play various games of adventurous conquest. There was always a dragon to slay, a treasure to unearth, or a joust to champion.

Remus' enthusiasm for reading and thirst for knowledge grew with each passing day. With ease he became the teacher's pet in the Muggle primary school he attended, which did not sit well with the other children. They took to picking on him, shoving him in the halls or knocking the books from his arms and tormenting him with names like _pouf_, _swot_, _weed_, _egg-head_ and _Nobby-no-mates_.

But they were wrong. Remus had friends. True, he did not create any _new_ playmates amidst the Muggle children, but he was able to keep the small group of friends he made in the Wizarding community. After all, they were from around the neighbourhood and had known him practically since birth. He was positive _they_ would never hurt him in any way, for they were his _true_ friends so Remus did not consider his unfriendly classmates a terrible loss.

Fortunately, the relentless teasing by his Muggle classmates did not deter Remus from his studies. Conversely, it seemed to throw him even deeper into his texts. Whenever the boy wasn't playing games or pretending with his friends, he sat Indian-style beneath the old oak tree which he dubbed the Reading Tree, softly reading aloud to himself while his tiny index finger followed his progress, smudging the ink of the printed lines in his wake. He enjoyed reading more than he loved playing, accredited to Mamă reading to him while he was within her womb. Mamă and Tată still alternated nights to tell him bedtime stories of the Wizarding world discreetly coexisting among the Muggle world and tales of the far away forests of Rumania.

As for his magical skills, Mamă was delighted to find Remus' high intelligence to be accompanied with an equally high aptitude for magic. The child proved to be a promising wizard from the age of two, performing easy tricks which made friends think that they misplaced some random item when in fact little Remus levitated it into his grasp. Mamă relished in how her tiny _miracolul_ made leaves swirl and circle with himself as the epicentre of the amusing tornado or how he floated his favourite toy, a stuffed bear he named Ursuz which was never very far from him, across the room whenever he wanted it, or how he manifested rainbow mobiles above his bed in the dark when he should've been asleep. She taught him many simple spells which he quickly mastered for his age, impressing Mamă, Tată and all of his Wizarding peers. But there was a catch: Mamă stressed that he should never _ever_ do magic at school, else he would be taken away. He always obeyed his parents; hence he endured the Muggle children's unkindness without so much as a sneezing hex. Besides, he didn't wish to be taken from his parents.

His restrained eagerness and magical abilities prompted Mamă to reward him with stories of her alma mater, a place in Scotland named Hogwarts. She told him it was likely that when he was old enough then he would also attend. He expressed a fascination with the school, so much that her heart swelled with immense pride when one day she found him standing beneath the Reading Tree in front of Ursuz and his friends, giving a mock lecture on levitation.

"What are you doing, Poppet?" she then inquired.

"Playing Hogwarts, mummy," he answered, a twinkle in his grey eyes.

She walked away, he noticed, with an appeased smile, and listening to his verbose lecture while the other children clung to his every word.

Soon enough things weren't all rainbows and sunshine for the young boy. The joyous, easy-going lives of the Lupins took a bizarre twist during Remus' fifth year of life. That was when Tată's younger siblings came to visit from the Old Country. Remus found these visitors interesting. Unchi Sorin greatly resembled Tată with the light eyes, fair skin and tawny hair that Remus himself inherited. Tanti Alina looked the typical Româ Gypsy with long, luxurious dark hair, brown eyes and an olive complexion. Remus thought she was very pretty.

For a few days he shied away from them, crawling on his hands and knees to hide behind the furniture where he quietly observed the strangers in his home. He particularly kept distance from Tanti Alina whom he carried an obvious fancy for. Somewhat crippled by his timid nature, he clung to the backs of his parents' legs with eyes cast downward as he spoke in an incomprehensible mutter.

That changed soon enough when Tanti Alina decided that she was crazy for her little nephew.

"Salut, Remus," she greeted with a bewitching smile after she spotted him crouching behind the settee, staring at her. "Ce mai faceţi?"

Instead of answering, Remus rushed over to where Mamă stood and from behind her legs peeked around at Tanti Alina. Mamă's hand caressed his scalp, soothing his childish anxiety like a puppy lapping at the nape of his neck.

"Vorbiţi, Remus!" chuckled Tată.

"Vorbiţi Româneşte, Remus?" Tanti Alina asked.

He nodded.

"Tu vrei nişte bomboăne?"

Again he nodded.

She reached into her pocket then presented him with the promised sweets, coaxing, "Vino aici şi iao. Vino şi iao, Remus! Aici!"

"Dute şi iao, fiul meu," Tată continued to laugh. "Dute la mătuşă tău!"

Remus took a deep, breathy sigh.

"Go ahead, Poppet," Mamă urged. "Don't be shy."

Remus bolted over to snatch the sweets from Tanti Alina, but before he could make his hasty retreat back to Mamă's leggy refuge, Tanti wrapped her arms around his tummy in a firm bear-hug and delivered a kiss on his cheek.

"Te iubesc, micuţule verşor," Tanti Alina cooed solemnly, drawing him upon her lap.

Remus preoccupied himself with unwrapping his sweet and cramming it into his mouth untill Mamă reminded him of etiquette.

"What do you say, Remus?"

"Mulţumesc bine, Tanti Alina," Remus thanked as best as he could amid a mouth stuffed with sweets.

"Cu plăcere, nepot," Tanti Alina stated softly in his ear. "Dragul meu, odorul meu, sufleţelul meu."

That simple bear-hug and peace-offering of sweets forged a strong friendship between Remus and his Tanti Alina and Unchi Sorin. Tanti Alina sat him upon her lap often, speaking to him only in Rumanian as she provoked his overactive imagination with stories of the Lupescu family adventures in the Old Country wildernesses. She taught him folk songs and dances that he frequently entertained everyone with during the evenings.

Unchi Sorin's avuncular duties spoilt Remus as much as Tanti Alina did. He snuck his _nepot tineri_ various coins, small gifts from Rumania and sweets which accordingly gave the boy his sweet tooth. Remus spent hours intently watching Unchi Sorin whittle and carve various objects as they sat outside on the luxuriant grass and drank dandelion and Burdock. Often when their refreshment was finished Unchi Sorin rough-housed with the boy for long periods of time before returning to this woodwork, allowing Remus to help in making spears with strange silver tips.

As mentioned, there was a dark lining to this silver cloud of familial togetherness. The adults eventually fell into esoteric conversation and Remus found himself banished to his room or outside with his friends, away from the words he desperately sought to hear. Knowing her son's great curiosity, Mamă cast veils of silence over whichever room the discussions were held in to prevent Remus' prying ears from eavesdropping.

For all the determination to keep Remus ignorant, circumstances did not go unnoticed by the child. Tanti and Unchi's arrival was marked by a strange interruption in the Lupins' tranquil lives, for it was then that Remus began waking in the night and toddling into his parents' bedroom, Ursuz clutched tightly to his chest, with a frightening announcement.

"Mamă, Tată," his scratchy voice disturbed their sleep. "There's a monster outside my window. It keeps staring at me."

Mamă and Tată jolted from their sleep. Alarmed, Mamă cradled a shaken Remus in a protective embrace while Tată checked his son's room, finding nothing. Remus was disappointed when his fear was accredited to a nightmare caused by the provocation of his vivid imagination by Tanti Alina's spooky stories. As Mamă tucked him back into bed with Ursuz, Remus heard Tanti and Unchi murmuring to Tată in Rumanian, but their voices were too low for him to understand any of their words. Age mattered not, for the child sensed something was drastically wrong...and those creepy amber eyes were _not_ his imagination! This much he knew just by the reaction of the adults.

Real or otherwise, the monster did not show itself again for a few weeks yet every night thereafter Remus noted Tată's absence. All Remus knew was Tată left with Tanti Alina and Unchi Sorin and it was scary for the little boy. Worse, these actions escalated his blatant nosiness, much to everyone's dismay.

"Why is Tată leaving?" he questioned. "Where is he going? Why does he go at night?"

"Never you mind, Poppet," Mamă softly dismissed. "Tată will be fine. Just stay inside with Ursuz and me."

"But--"

"_No_ buts, Poppet. Come to bed. I'll read you a story."

She read _Little Red Riding Hood_ to him, hoping to teach him about the Big Bad Wolf and instil within him a fear of the lowly beast. But Remus was yet a small child and the subtle meaning was lost in his innocent mind. He yawned, snuggled Ursuz, huddled beneath the safety of his blankets and fell asleep.

A few nights later the amber eyes returned.

Remus was asleep when the creepy feeling of being watched jarred him awake. Sure enough, he opened his eyes to discover the glowering amber orbs fixated intently upon his prone form. Shocked by the ocular intrusion, he wailled for his parents. Mamă reached the room first, coming between him and the eyes like a shield as she pulled him against her with a mother's protective ferocity.

"The eyes, Mamă! The eyes came back!"

His words sent the household spinning into chaos as Tată exited his room, rousing Tanti and Unchi from their sleep in his wake.

"Hush, Poppet, hush!" Mamă soothed, stroking him. "They're gone now. Look! Nothing's there, baby!"

Remus looked and saw only his own terrified, tear-stained reflection staring back and beyond that were Tată, Tanti and Unchi out in the garden searching for the eyes, each armed with the spear-sticks he helped carve.

Mamă brought him into her bedroom to sleep. Everything was right in her arms with Ursuz in his. Remus wanted badly to snuggle in security between the comforting bodies of both parents but, alas, it did not happen. Tată did not join them that night but instead chose to remain at constant vigil with his younger siblings. Knowing of their efforts to protect him, Remus was contented and felt safe enough to fall into dreams of lollipops, gingerbread and secret treasures. Safe from prying eyes. For now.

This last appearance of the eyes outside of Remus' bedroom window brought tides of tension in the household from then on. Remus wasn't certain what his family hid from him but he tried his damnedest to figure it out. That it centred around those heinous eyes was all he knew, proving to his sharp mind that they were indeed real rather than imagination as Mamă and Tată insisted them to be.

Their surreptitious conduct, meant to preserve his innocence, only served to frighten him further, for he sensed the stress taking its toll on his family. The child's only reprieve to ease the dissonance was to leave them crayon drawings of suns and flowers or little notes in his scrawling novice handwriting stating "I love you". In effort to seek the truth, he hid around corners and beneath windows, hoping to hear something that would make sense.

Late one night he sneaked out of his room with Ursuz squeezed dearly against his thudding heart after hearing the embroilled voices of his family drifting from the kitchen. His prudent tip-toeing went undetected by the distracted adults, allowing the little boy to get as far as the doorway where he pressed his back against the wall, enabling him to remain out of sight. Everyone sounded upset, even angry and he _worried_ about his loved ones.

Cautiously leaning over, he peeked inside the kitchen to find Mamă cleaning a disgusting wound in Tată's chest. His only saving grace which kept him from getting caught when he gasped was Tată's cries of pain at the exact same moment after Mamă applied an antiseptic to the wound. He heard her cast a healling spell to mend the gash as silent, empathetic tears trickled down his face.

Tată was hurt! He wanted to rush to his father's side, throw himself into his arms, press against his strong, warm body, tell him that he loved him, and then everything would be fine. Rather, he stood still and listened.

"It has been four months," Unchi Sorin murmured in a disconcerting tone, "and still the beast lives. The _lup_ is cunning to have escaped us for so long."

_Lup?_ Remus weighed this with his cursed gift of high intelligence. _Wolves don't live in England!_

Yet Unchi Sorin distinctly said _lup_.

"We _must_ find a way to destroy it before it's too late," Tanti Alina added. "It hunts _us_ just as we hunt _it_."

"I fear for Remus," Mamă announced, making her son's heart palpitate faster at mention of his name. "It goes to his window and watches him. It's singled him out."

"We have offended the beast with our work," Unchi Sorin reminded. "Now it's come for what matters most to us."

"We will take every measure to protect our child," Tată told Mamă. "Whatever it takes. He is our precious miracle."

"Enough talk of this," insisted Mamă. "It's sunrise. The full moon is over and you lot need your rest. I must make breakfast. Remy will be awake soon and he'll be hungry."

Remus charged back to bed as fast as his little legs could carry him when the chairs scuffled against the linoleum floor as his family rose from the table.

The ensuing days were the most difficult ones yet. For all of his intelligence and cleverness, Remus was still but a child and his mind could not fully comprehend what was happening. He did not own the capacity to think about checking his books and researching what relation a wolf had with the full moon. He did not think to chart the lunar phases so he would be aware of which night the full moon fell upon. He was just too young to make the connections.

On the fifth full moon since Tanti and Unchi's arrival, Remus' friends visited to play like usual and he went about his juvenile business without realising that this day would be his last innocent one. It was a wonderfull day, jam-packed with the carefree abandon youth afforded him, the trouble with the _lup_ forgotten. They played games of chasey and hide-and-seek for hours then pretended to be knights questing for dragon treasure before settling beneath the Reading Tree to play Hogwarts.

The sun began to set far too swiftly against a blood red sky, threatening a day of intense heat tomorrow. Soon enough Mamă, who'd been in the kitchen discussing grown-up stuff with Tată, Unchi Sorin and Tanti Alina all day, came outside to bring him in for the night. Each child groaned and complained in disappointment but Mamă was not hearing any of it and simply ushered Remus inside.

Later that evening he nestled against Tanti Alina, his back to her front, both stretched out over the settee, listening to streams of the soft jazz that Tanti grew a penchant for as it was broadcasted over the radio. Remus didn't mind. He enjoyed the mollifying notes as the music flowed from the box, his Tanti's hand rubbing circles over his tummy. Companioned with the jazz, this was an action which further lulled him to dreamland.

Near eight-thirty, he heard a gentle voice mutter beside his ear: "Remy? Come on, Poppet, off to bed with you."

Stretching, he complained, "Want watch 'Mantha, Mamă!"

"Samantha isn't on untill tomorrow. You have to go to bed first. You can watch Samantha when you wake up."

"I _woke_ up! I want watch 'Mantha _now_!"

Remus' favourite telly programme was an American one about a pretty blonde housewife named Samantha who happened to be a witch too. Just like Mamă. Plus Samantha was pretty. Just like Mamă too.

The Lupins were one of the few families in the neighbourhood with a television set, a wedding gift from Mamă's wealthy family after they discovered she had a rather impromptu marriage. Although the Thorndikes did not believe in mixed marriages like most other Pureblood families didn't, they supported Mamă's choice in a husband. However, like everyone else, they loved the child who was brought into their lives by way of that marriage enough to place their prejudice aside and pamper him properly. The result was the telly, which pleased all of his friends greatly.

In spite of the privilege of having a television and the hounding of his friends to watch the curious Muggle contraption, Remus still preferred playing outside or reading. Except for when it came to Samantha. He always wanted to watch _Bewitched_. As Mamă roused the boy that evening, Remus was unaware that he'd taken a brief nap but instead believed it was morning and time for his programme.

"You're exhausted, Poppet. You're nearly out."

Mamă lifted a groggy Remus into her arms, draping his small form over her shoulder. In spite of his weariness, he fought stubbornly against his sleep as all tired children do.

"Want watch 'Mantha!" he protested, rubbing his pink-rimmed eyes.

"You can watch her on the morrow, Remus."

"Mummy, Mummy, I want, I want..."

"Shhh-shhh! Go to sleep! Go to _sleep_, Poppet!"

Remus felt himself being lowered into bed, then the cool bedclothes pulled around him. The fresh linens smelt of cotton and lemon, offering him added comfort that put him at ease. Then he felt the warm sensation of Mamă kissing his forehead before he fell asleep.

Sometime in the night he awakened suddenly. Immediately peering out of his window, he was relieved to not see eerie amber eyes looking back.

_They aren't real! Mamă and Tată said they're my imagination!_

Then he was aware of emptiness nearby; there was something that should've been with him but was not. It hit him:

_Where was Ursuz?!_

Frantically, he searched for his beloved _ursulet_.

Not anywhere on the bed. Not underneath the bedclothes. Not lodged between the bed frame and the wall. Not on the floor. Nope, not beneath the bed either.

He slid out of his warm nest and ventured out to the dark, vacant lounge.

_Slap! Slap! Slap!_

The tender pads of his small feet beat the rhythm over the cold tiled floor.

Not on the settee.

Where _was Ursuz?_

As he stood his full height from searching the floor, his eyes rested on the Reading Tree beyond the window...to where he and his friends liked to play Hogwarts...to where they played Hogwarts earlier...to where...

_Ursuz!_

...Ursuz sat staring back at him with his beady black, unblinking eyes.

He charged forward to the door but halted when doubt stopped him. The _lup_ with the amber eyes would be outside! It would _get_ him if he went out!

Blinking, he shook his tousselled head to clear it.

No! There _was_ no _lup_! It was his imagination, like pretend! Mamă and Tată would not lie to him! If the _lup_ was real then it would've been watching him from outside his window where it always was. Besides, the wizards and knights he pretended to be would fear neither dragon _nor _wolf.

He placed a tiny hand on the ornate glass doorknob, breathed in deep to summon his courageous inner wizard before he swung open the door and stepped outside. It was Remus' doughty nature bestowed upon him from both of his parents that compelled him to brave those intense amber eyes he just _knew_ deep down were lying in wait. The mix of Gypsy/wizard blood pulsed valiantly through his veins as a single thought urged him on: he needed to save Ursuz. His plan was to run out, grab the toy from the _lup's_ hungry jaws then tuck himself and his teddy back into bed where the beast couldn't touch them.

He left the porch one cautious step at a time untill his bare feet touched the grass carpet of the garden. Doubt froze him for a moment. He surveyed the ink well-blackness of the garden and saw that it was not the garden he knew. Everything appeared strange, displaced and alien to his young eyes.

Hearing a rustle behind him, he gasped and whirled around to meet whatever challenged him but found nothing. His breath exhaled in a huff then he raced over to the Reading Tree and snatched Ursuz up into his eager arms.

When he turned back around to retreat toward the security of his house, he met with the glowing and very real amber eyes of a great wolf. It was as if the blackness itself took the terrible canine shape from out of a lingering nightmare.

"Grrrrrr!" growled the animal, its rage reverberating from the depths of its gullet.

Remus gasped, eyes agape in bewilderment as he slowly backed away from the monster.

"Grrrrrr!"

The _lup_ stepped forward.

Remus stepped back, Ursuz the only thing between him and those dripping, snapping jaws.

The _lup_ took another step forward.

Remus glanced over the beast at his quiet, shadowed home where safety taunted him. Too much distance lay between him and the front door and although his legs were long for his age, they were still a child's limbs which would never be able to outrun a wild animal. _If he could just reach the porch!_

The little boy's shaky legs failled him when he stumbled then fell hard to the ground, skinning his hands and knees raw.

"Rrrrrrrrr!!"

There was no time to react in any way before the wolf pounced upon him. A stream of Rumanian poured from his mouth in a terrified shriek while he tried vainly to defend himself.

"Mamă! Tată! Ajutor! _Ajutor! _Lup! _Lup!_ Nu mă atingeţi! Stai! Lasă-mă în pace! Mamă! Tată! Am nevoie de ajutorul vostru! Lup! _Lup!!_"

Remus struggled under the heavy weight of the wolf but his efforts were futile. The wolf sank its fangs into the sweet, tender flesh of his shoulder, making him scream louder than ever before.

Lights turned on inside the house but darkness consumed the child. All of the green grass and sunshine was forever erased from the voice of Remus John Lupin amid his bloodcurdling screams.

**Chapter 1**

Lupin bolted up from sleep with his heart hammering against his ribs, eyes as wide as saucers while he surveyed the encompassing area. Once he realised where he was, the indelible images of that fatefull period in his life faded back inside stygian blackness so like the monster who bestowed its curse upon him; a blissfull, enveloping darkness, a frigid nothingness akin to the velvet nocturnal sky.

His frail form shook uncontrollably as a frosty wind penetrated the insubstantial blanket covering him. It was fruitless to wrap the ragged thing tighter around him for it offered no better protection if he did. Nevertheless, he sat straight up on the park bench he'd been asleep on then curled his emaciated body into the foetal position, hoping to manufacture the warmth that the blanket neglected to give.

It was only September but winter wanted to come early and already battered London with uncomfortable temperatures, making the pitiless streets even crueller. Lupin knew cruelty in its many forms from first-hand experiences ever since he was infected. The weather was cruelty's fairest face, he found. The unusually bitter wind ripped harder through the open space he occupied, howling in his numbed ears. Though they were already stiff, he tucked his bare hands between his legs and stomach then drew his knees closer to his chest, determined to protect his extremities from autumn's nippy bite.

_Stop, wind! Please stop! _ he begged in thought.

But it didn't and nothing he did helped. The cold kissed an exposed portion of his neck and he brought his frozen hands from their body-heated sanctuary so he could pull the collar of his coat back up to protect the bared flesh. He blew a puff of warm breath over his hands then rubbed them together, trying to thaw them before they were placed back over his heart where it was warm. The only mercy the cold offered was that it calmed the sharp throb of the bruise below his left eye, the remnant of a recent knot.

Had his spirit not been broken by years of hardship and poverty he would have made the extra effort to seek an alternative, suitable shelter against the ensuing season. But behind his chocolate bar-sweetened smiles he secretly harboured a death-wish and subconsciously desired to ebb away on the frigid streets. Too spent to live yet too terrified to fail at taking his own life, he felt trapped. Then there was the unknown fate he would face if he managed to succeed for him to consider. With his luck Dante would've been right and he'd spend eternity encased inside a tree being fed upon by harpies whose feasting would wound his lost soul.

Which was why it was fortunate for him that solitary werewolves possessed an innate wanderlust to be in new locations every few days, a defence mechanism that made solitaires absent from the security of a pack nearly impossible to locate, increasing their chance for survival. Leaving the park for a warmer environment appealled to him and seemed a better option than dying of the wished-upon hypothermia. For all of his self-pity and pursuit of death he was forever a coward in the end result.

Rising from the bench, he swore he felt an arthritic creak in his rigid joints. _I'm_ _only thirty-four,_ he thought, _but I feel seventy-four._ There was a slight, spectral tinkling from the dog tags the Ministry forced him to wear about his neck for quick and easy identification. Those surgical steel tags may not have been an actual leash but they served as the bonds of otherworldly servility. He knew the purpose behind the _dog_ tags was to further humiliate werewolves into subservience, reminding them that they were animals rather than people, pets on bended knee to the Ministry's whims. A permanent tattoo had been considered but was too easy to conceal, yet nevertheless being an ink-stain branding their soul. Yes, the _dog_ tags were efficient enough.

His empty stomach rumbled over these thoughts but he habitually ignored his hunger. He preoccupied himself by gathering his surrounding meagre possessions which comprised of what he wore, the useless blanket he retrieved from the pavement where it fell when he stood and the small, tattered case held together by several pieces of worn string. A few other things including a couple more articles of clothing, several books, some toiletries and personal items were miniaturised and contained within that case. The name stamped in stencilled gold lettering on his case peeled to now read _Professor R.J. Lup_, a subtle unveilling of his darkest nature to anyone observant or educated enough to notice.

Once upon a time his full name was emblazoned across the new rather than cracked leather of the gift from his parents. Now the remainder of it attempted to follow the example of the already vanquished letters. Just as well. Once upon a time he had been gainfully employed as a professor. Just as he was once considered a human being. Now he was a host of things: a beggar, a thief, a busker and a sometime rent-boy, whatever provided him with his next meal. The lycanthropic infection which catapulted him into such extreme indigence robbed him of nearly everything he had early in life. It condemned him to live in loneliness and misery, destitution and misunderstanding, in desperate need and unrequited want, snatching away all that he loved.

The childhood friends he believed were true wasted no time in abandoning him after the news spread of the attack on "that poor Lupin boy". The neighbourhood learned rapidly of the incident, thanks to a few in close proximity who were roused from their slumber by the child's screams that night. They witnessed the gruesome struggle inside the security of their homes, too selfish in their fear to aide the toddler fighting for survival. His family intended to shroud his condition in secrecy but those cowering neighbours announced the horrid news to the surrounding Wizarding community at first opportunity they got. The entire community turned their backs to the Lupins overnight. The ill treatment they received escalated untill they were forced to leave his childhood home in Devon, chased out by the modern equivalent of villagers with pitchforks.

His recollection of that awfull night was a blurred haze. The beast straddling him, pinning his small body underneath its superior weight, its teeth buried in the soft flesh of his shoulder as it attempted to drag him off, clawing his torso to urge him into submission. It meant to drag him to the gods knew where but he resisted every metre he was pulled. All activity ceased when the werewolf briefly slumped over his ravaged body before running off into the forest. Alina and Sorin wounded the creature, frightening it away, then he was in the comfort of his mother's arms.

Young Lupin was Apparated to St. Mungo's casualty where he was refused admittance immediately in spite of his potentially lethal injuries. Snippets of images and sounds from that night replayed in his mind. His frantic parents begged for someone to save their only child but were promptly warned to remove him from the premises, that his _kind_ was not welcome in their establishment.

_"He was_ born _here, you ridiculous cow!" Mamă shouted at the witch behind the admittance desk. "He's just a_ little boy_!"_

_"He's not your son any more, Mrs. Lupin," the witch insisted with a firm tone. "He's a Dark creature now. He'll be dangerous. The best we can do is euthanise him _if_ he survives. It's best to let him die...or else take him to a veterinarian."_

At that point Lupin lost consciousness but apparently a female intern who witnessed his parents' emotional plea for help trailled the distraught family outside where she performed a few complicated spells to repair his maulled body. This altruistic act saved his life. The young intern taught Mamă those healling spells then warned that werewolves were considered a threat to the medical field because no-one knew much about their physiology or behaviour. All they knew was lycanthropy was highly infectious. Factoids published reported werewolves' violent, unpredictable nature, subsequently closing everyone's minds untill werewolves were turned away...even if the victim was a five-year-old on the cusp of death. Those in the medical profession often lose their bedside manner, the intern informed, but it was wicked to refuse a child in need even if that child was a werewolf.

The expulsion from society was immediate. While young Lupin lay in bed delirious from fever and infection, the parents of a pair of his beloved friends came to speak to Mamă and Tată about their friendships. Through his feverish state he overheard the words that started his collection of heartfelt scars.

_"Keep your son away from my child, Stella. I want as much distance as possible between my son and yours."_

_"But Francine, he's_ still _Remus!"_

_"No he's not. And you know very well that he's not. Your son died. That _thing_ in his bed is a monster."_

_A sharp _slap!_ resounded after Francine's offensive words and Remus knew that his mother struck her._

_"My son is _not_ a monster! He is a _survivor_! Now remove yourself from my house! Get out or you shall receive worse!"_

_"He's an animal, Stella! Put him down before he infects or kills someone!"_

It was customary for children bitten by a werewolf to be destroyed in the manner likened to a rabid dog, for a dog was what a lycanthrope was considered to be, downgraded to beast even while in human form. That was something Lupin still found troublesome to cope with. Yet he was one of the _lucky_ ones. He had parents who loved and wanted him. To his knowledge no other lycanthropic child grew up because if they managed to survive their first transformation, itself an unlikely feat, they were _humanely_ put down in hails of silver bullets, burnt to death while placed upon pyres or left in the wilderness with hope that they died of exposure, starvation or fell prey to Darwin's survival of the fittest rule.

Remus Lupin was most fortunate indeed. He survived the traumatic first transformation, a feat most adults were unable to do. It came to pass that survival was the main theme throughout his life. He survived one transformation only to see another at next full moon rise. Whereas others dubbed him monster or victim, Mamă kept insisting that he was a survivor.

Perhaps keeping him alive was his loving parents' first mistake. He dared consider that they wanted him to live for their own selfish reasons, he being their only child. True, their compassion for their little miracle allowed the boy to enjoy a decent quality of life, continuing on as normal, sans all of his friends save for Ursuz. One-eyed, torn and darned, blood-stained Ursuz who could not rescue his rescuer. Ursuz was still in his possession, miniaturised and tucked away in the case with the rest of his meagre belongings. Ursuz was his only loyal friend throughout the entire ordeal so he owed it to the _ursulet_ to keep him safe. He cared not that he was a grown man with a dependency on a childhood toy; Ursuz was there for him when others were not.

His parents and most of his friends were now long dead from either age or war while everyone left bustled about, caught up in their own lives without giving him a second thought. He understood, really he did. There _was_ an impending war, after all, and most probably thought him already dead.

In one sense he _was_ dead. The man he used to be was certainly long gone, the last bit of him killed a few years ago after...

_Don't travel down _that_ dark road, Lupin!_ he thought. _It isn't worth it! Best to forget!_

With purposefull avoidance of one heartache he found himself sucked into the vortex of another, generated by a sweets wrapper that cart-wheeled passed him in the icy wind. His poor parents wouldn't want him dead after the extreme lengths they went through to protect him, before and after the bite. He couldn't betray them with suicide. Every penny they earned and saved was wasted away in vain attempts to cure him, succeeding in only making him fiercely ill and themselves bankrupt.

It was Alina who offered an actual cure to him. After standing outside the cellar door and listening to the terrified screams of his first transformation, she could not bear to know the great pain her _lubito micuţule verişor_ endured. She wept profusely as he pounded on the cellar door with his dainty fists, his voice scratchy from the raw throat he acquired by screaming.

_"Mamă! Tată!" he shouted. "I'll be good! I'll be good! Please let me out! I'm a good boy! Please let me out, I'm scared!"_

The wolf cared not that little Remus was a good boy. It was in him. It wanted out and it got out by ripping through his five-year-old body. His muscles twisted, bones snapped and body contorted as it rearranged itself into a different form. There was so much _pain_, so much _fear_. Being a toddler, he made no comprehension of his distress or the blackness that accompanied it. He thought he merely lost consciousness or fell asleep.

Morning found him alone, cold, naked and bleeding. He tried to stand but his weakened legs buckled beneath him. Instead he curled up tightly in a ball as an attempt to warm himself since his inexperienced family did not think to place a blanket in the cellar with him. All he could do was sob with a throat rawer than before from shrieking and howling. He couldn't remember who hurt him so badly but the floor and walls were splashed with blood he identified as his own. Wounds marred his limbs and torso, making him believe the _lup_ returned and maulled him while he slept. Lupin recalled the excruciating details of this first time all too vividly. Worse, he recollected that his child mind raced with wonderings as to who the perpetrators of his suffering were; never once did it cross his mind that his wounds were self-inflicted.

Everyone came in answer to his whimpering pleas that morning. Tată lifted his damaged body into his arms and carried him to his room where Mamă cast the healling charms the intern taught her, cleaned and bandaged the deeper gashes then put him to bed. Here he remained for three days recuperating from the self-maiming. During this time he noticed how his family watched over him, how one of them was always present even while he slept.

Alina in particular liked to stay with him. It was rare for her to stray from his side, cuddling him and Ursuz as if they were her own. But even his childish intellect told him something was amiss with her. The cloud of despair hanging low over his family completely enshrouded Alina. Mamă grew dreadfully alarmed in regard to the change in his beloved aunt and whispered her concerns into Tată's ear.

Lupin recounted clearly the day he was well enough to walk and Mamă allowed him to sit under the Reading Tree. She warily granted Alina permission to supervise him but insisted they go no further than the Tree, to never leave her sight. He was excited as he gathered Ursuz along with the _Sherlock Holmes_ book he was about to finish and the _Treasure Island_ one he planned on reading next then walked outside hand-in-hand with Alina.

_Completely absorbed in his reading and gratefull to feel better, Remus relished at being outside in the hot late summer haze, enjoying the cold grass beneath his tummy. All of his wounds were healled within that short three-day time span although quite a few raised angry pink scars were left behind as reminders of what he could not remember._

_"Remus, vino aici, micuţule verişor, raza meu de soare! Vino aici, odorul dragul meu!"_

_Without hesitation he stood and followed with perfect trust as Alina_ _coaxed him further away from the house, down toward the edge of the nearby wood. Instinct warned him to not disobey Mamă and to remain beneath the Reading Tree but he did not believe Alina would cause him harm. She loved him, after all. With Ursuz clutched to his chest in the customary protective manner,_ _the boy was confident his _ursulet_ would never let anything bad happen to him hence, he thought nothing of whatever object Alina kept concealled behind her back. Perhaps it was more chocolate she wanted to smuggle to him between meals. Perhaps she did not want Mamă to catch her ruining his appetite. His tummy rumbled at the possibility._

_A rabbit scurried_ _from sight, capturing his attention and he laughed with a child's pleasure. Then he heard a strange metallic _click! _before_ _Alina spoke._

_"Te iubesc, micuţule verişor."_

_He turned to face her and gasped with shock, eyes gaped in disbelief._

_Alina had a gun pointed at his chest._

_"Tanti, no! Tanti, vă rog! Îmi para rău! N-am facut nimic rău! Nu înţeleg! Te iubesc, Tanti! Vă rog!"_

_He begged her. He told her that he was sorry, he did nothing wrong, that he didn't understand. He said that he loved her then further begged for his life._

_"La revedere, scumpa mea."_

_As Alina's trigger finger drew back, Remus closed his eyes tight, held Ursuz even tighter and cringed in his wait for death._

_But it never came. He suddenly found himself pressed hard against Mamă who stepped between him and the promised silver bullet. Tată placed himself between Mamă and Alina who spoke English for Mamă's benefit._

_"I'm trying to save him from himself, Doru! Think of what he's become, how much he will suffer! We've seen this before! Just because he is family does not make him exempt from the hardships of what he is! Putting him out of his misery is the best thing for him! You know it yourselves! Don't be foolish!"_

_Sorin wrestled the gun away from Alina who then fainted in the excitement. Tată advised his siblings to depart for home, that there was nothing more for them to do now that the beast finished the carrion deed it plotted against the Lupescus. Sorin agreed, told Tată that he did not share Alina's views and promised they would take their leave in the morning._

_Little Remus slept safely, wrapped in both of his parents' arms that night, Ursuz tucked away with him. Tată pacified his fears with fatherly affections, referring to him as _mic miracolul meu:_ his little miracle. The phrase was repeated in his ear all night as Remus nestled closer against his father's broad, hairy chest._

His beloved Tanti Alina was the first in a procession of heart-wrenching betrayals Lupin endured at several points in his life. It was also the worst one. Like so many others before their discovery of his affliction, Alina loved him untill he was bitten. Afterwards she wanted to murder the helpless child she coddled in her arms each day and night, back before he was reduced to being less than human in her eyes.

The pain of these rotten memories gnawed at him like an ulcer, and was as insufferable as the hunger pains in his stomach. The ache in his veins, he knew, was sure to come next. Each menacing discomfort was eminently more harrowing than the last, the others not disappearing but instead masked by the new addition.

Worse, Lupin had no idea where he was heading; there was no place for him to go. Upon resignation from his teaching position, he chose to visit his beloved friend and recent escaped convict Sirius Black in the Brighton cave where Black sought refuge. He stayed there during the summer, reacquainting himself with his mischievous friend who taunted him about becoming a professor after the trouble they caused together while attending Hogwarts themselves. But regardless of the bonding, time and suspicion had torn a rift between them. Sirius was trying to deal with new and old insecurities which made him distrustfull, argumentative and increasingly violent. That rift never was more apparent than when Lupin took too long to find food for them one evening. Black, who was never violent toward his werewolf friend in the past, greeted him with misgivings which, when answered in an unsatisfactory manner, turned to sheer violence that sent Lupin fleeing. Despite the twelve year torment the poor man had been through, Lupin never anticipated his beloved friend to be capable of that unthinkable act.

_"I'm _so_ sorry, Moony!"_ Black had said desperately when he was found packing in haste. "_I didn't mean it, you've _got _to believe me! I would_ never _intentionally hurt you! You _know_ that! It's just..."_

_"The years left us both too damaged," he finished in a tone that was forcefully soft. "I understand. I know what you've been through, that it takes time to get over things _if_ you ever do at all. I won't strike you back, not even in self-defence. But I need time to think. For now, I must leave."_

_"Where are you going? When will you return?"_

_There was panic in the aggressor's voice upon seeing the results of his erroneous ways, a panic that wounded Lupin's soul to match the black and blue of his arms and the swollen, possibly fractured, cheekbone._

_"I don't know," was all he muttered before he vanished beyond the mouth of the cave._

His last words to Sirius were verified true: he didn't know where he was going, for his hovel of a home also proved to be a burden of remembrance that he could not bring himself to return to. The conflict with Sirius happened nearly two weeks ago in mid-August. He had not seen Sirius since, nor did he presently care to.

A second option was the werewolf safehavens run by the Ministry, something he quickly ruled out owing to a past experience. While celebrating his eighteenth birthday at The Three Broomsticks, he argued with a drunken wizard who made fun of him after overhearing his excited discussion for future plans to Rosmerta. The wizard made disparaging remarks about werewolves before challenging Lupin to visit one of the safehavens, telling him: _"It'll show you where you'll end up! It'll put you in your rightfull place!"_ Angry at the man's insolence and desperate to prove him wrong, though he knew deep down the jerk was right, Lupin decided to accept the challenge and visited one of the London safehavens. He'd always known how society viewed werewolves; as a werewolf he had no choice but to. His friends advised him to forget the wizard's unwelcome commentary but he couldn't. As all youths do, he needed to see those things with his own eyes.

It is said that the best way to learn is the hard way because it's usually certain that the mistake would never be repeated. After his experience, Lupin was sure to never visit another safehaven again regardless the circumstances he was under. He had few expectations upon his arrival that forlorn, lonely night: a decent meal, a warm bed, perhaps a hot shower before leaving in the morning. That was all he wanted.

What one gets, however, is almost never what one wants. Of course Lupin was not an exception to the rule. His decent meal was a chunk of hard, stale bread and watery, flavourless soup. The ancient wizard who managed the safehaven told him that the Ministry not only supplied the scant meals but discouraged the serving of meat or animal products for fear of inducing the werewolves' alleged natural hunger for flesh. Like Francine, they all believed him to be a mindless animal.

His warm bed was a rickety cot that left little room for him to turn upon and the hard iron bar situated across the centre of his back forewarned of muscles that would complain come morning. Apparently the Ministry believed that a werewolf should be grateful for having a cot at all since they were accustomed to the hard ground or floor like animals. The room he slept in was large and communal, shared with other werewolves seeking shelter from the storm raging outside. Most of them were old before their time, haggard shells who withered away in their Ministry-appointed poverty. Their visage panicked young Lupin. After all of the investment put into him, was he truly destined to be a fragment of a human being?

The much needed hot shower was completely nonexistent. Werewolves were filthy animals, after all, and according to the unreasonable majority, their stench merely reflected that they were beasts disguised as men. Moreover, the entire safehaven facility was dirty, cold and impersonal, offering not so much as the comfort of a blanket. Blankets, as it was explained to him when he requested one, were a luxury that werewolves took for granted. Instead of leaving them for others at the safehavens, most werewolves tended to steal them for use on the streets so the Ministry refused to deliver any more of them.

Lupin could not blame his fellow lycanthropes. He shared their guilt of thievery, which was how he acquired the skimpy blanket now tucked beneath his own arm. Its previous owner hung it out to dry on a wash line in late autumn when he saw it. Realising London was in for a harsh winter, he nicked the blanket out of pure necessity, the _only_ reason compelling him to take from another...or perform objectionable acts of any sort. The blanket's ineptitude was his punishment.

It was pure outrage for anybody to have to resort to crime for survival and witnessing the state of his kind filled him with resentment as well as broke his heart. The generosity bestowed upon him by Hogwarts for seven ephemeral years served not only to strengthen and fatten his malnourished body but unintentionally gave him false security and hope for his future. At that moment he was enraged at his parents for protecting him from Alina's silver bullet, at Albus Dumbledore who treated him as an equal, at the Ministry for discriminating against his people, and at the werewolves themselves for not fighting the injustice.

Previous to his excursion to the safehaven he had never seen another werewolf and attesting to the living conditions they met was a rude dose of reality for the young man. He could not comprehend why his people were despised to the point of such ludicrous dismissal. How, he wondered, could a whole society force an entire group of people who were randomly cursed by Fate to suffer so much? Werewolves had no choice but to suffer in twofold: from lycanthropy and discrimination. True, their disease was infectious but there were precautions that prevented it from spreading, precautions the Ministry itself withheld.

He knew from first-hand experience the destitution, strife and prejudice fellow werewolves suffered but in the past he always had the support of his friends to shield him some. Of course their charity was unwanted by his fierce Gypsy preference to remain independent. He made his _own_ way, relying on his friends as a very last resort. They were reluctant to wait for his askance yet respected his wishes, letting it be known that they would do or give anything for him if and when he asked then waited for the rare occasions when he would do so.

But now everyone was gone or rendered unreliable with their own problems and there was no-one for him to fall back on. Hence, the death-wish. He contemplated: freezing to death was an easy way to die. One's system would simply slow down then grow numb from the cold before slipping off into permanent sleep. Since he lacked the courage suicide required, allowing the elements to have their way with him would be idealistic. The wind, which briefly stopped, was again howling in his ear like an invisible lupine cousin, beckoning him to give up, to join the ranks of those it claimed. His body shivered violently in continual effort to keep warm but it was impossible to accomplish. Better to let the winter take him for it was certain to get the job done right.

One failled suicide attempt, which landed him in a St. Mungo's padded cell for a fortnight, was already under his belt. That botched suicide occurred soon after the hospital lifted its ban against werewolves and put him among its first lycanthropic customers. In spite of the spare attention they provided him, the hospital staff still expected him out of their establishment prior to the impending full moon, releasing him one week in advance of that night.

If he let the winter take its toll and froze to death on the streets the suicide would be chalked up to mere unfortunate circumstances. The only good werewolf in society's eyes was a dead werewolf, leaving him convinced that his death would be celebrated rather than mourned. The one person who he expected to care for him the most was the very reason he was on the streets tonight.

Lupin quaked, wanting to disown the history which plagued him. But this he could not do for it was his burden and his alone. These were the reasons he desired so adamantly to perish in the harsh winter temperatures. It seemed as if there was no escape and it was unbearable to continue.

Untill...

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of fractional salvation. It wouldn't be much but it would stop the nagging hurt for a while. At the street corner a block away lingered the sketchy silhouette of a man he knew, one he currently gazed upon as his christ-figure. Lupin's strides hastened to meet him before the man chose to abandon his stationery post.

"Adam?" he called when he was close enough for the man to hear, his tone of voice stressing urgency. Even _he_ recoilled at how desperate he sounded but he _was_ desperate, after all. His unsteady hand reached out to grip the other man's shoulder.

"Adam? Adam, it's me."

Relief washed over him as the man turned to meet him, a scowl upon his craggy, unhandsome face. Yes, this was definitely Adam: middle-aged with a scar zig-zagging vertically over his blinded right eye, the results of a knife fight to settle a dispute over the rights to a prostitute ten years ago. Adam was a tough grafter, that was evident, but Lupin was surprised that the man managed to survive for as long as he did. Hell, Lupin surprised _himself_ in those same regards with every passing day. They were all on borrowed time out on the savage London streets, every one of them realised that. Lupin was still no exception and being a werewolf handicapped him further.

"Oh. Yes. Lupin, innit?" growled Adam in mockery. "Christ, get in a scuffle lately?" When Lupin did not respond, Adam asked: "Wot do _you_ want?"

_As if you didn't know_, thought the werewolf who fought against a flinch at the distastefull tone with which the word _you_ was pronounced. Rather than responding in an equally offensive way, Lupin grinned both with shyness and slyness. In spite of being a werewolf he knew not to bite the hand that fed him. Or had the power to give him what he wanted.

"A warm bed first comes to mind," he replied. "I can't seem to sleep with the wind driving straight through me."

Adam glared at the other man with utter disdain.

"I thought you werewolves 'ad a tol'rance for the cold," he snarled. "Wolves sleep out in the open durin' the winter, even allowin' themselves ta be blanketed by the snow."

Lupin offered a polite smile this time.

"I see someone's done his homework."

"One 'as to when 'is liege is a Dark creature."

Lupin suppressed a grimace at Adam's casual acknowledgement of what he was.

"Yes, well, if I was presently in my _wolf_ form that may very well be an option but tonight I am only a man."

Adam rolled his eyes with contempt.

"That's open for debate, innit? Jus' wot is it you _want_, Lupin? I'm too busy for games an' yer too old ta be a rent-boy."

"As I said, I can't sleep. The dreams are worse tonight," he informed, doing his best to ignore the fact that Adam knew precisely which nerves to hit. "The memories just...won't...go away."

Confessing a weakness was something which always unsettled Lupin. It was bad enough that learning of his condition armed others with common knowledge of general weaknesses without offering his personal ones as well. Adam was not the sort of person anybody should give such information to for he was certain to use it to his advantage whenever he felt the need arise.

Adam's sigh was more like a death rattle of grievous annoyance. The werewolf thought the man must've had a touch of pneumonia or, at the very least, congested lungs.

"Is it shelter for the night ya seek," Adam demanded to know, "or do ya wish ta stop the mem'ries?"

"Both would be appreciated," tested Lupin with a sheepish expression for it never hurt to ask.

"Ya cannot afford _both_, Lupin, I know ya well."

"Truth is I can't afford either," he admitted sourly.

"I din't think ya could. Untill ya can..."

Adam shrugged Lupin's hand from his shoulder as if it was a cockroach and took a few steps away but the needy werewolf grabbed the retreating man by the coat sleeve.

"Wait!" Lupin cried. "I can pay! In..._other_ ways."

Now it was pure disgust with which Adam glared at him.

"I thought as much," jeered the thug. "Yer _pathetic_, Lupin. Aren't ya even ashamed of wot ya do?"

"Yes, but I do what I must. I have plenty of time to regret it later."

Adam smirked nastily.

"Believe me, you will."

Scanning the premises for any prying eyes, Adam accosted Lupin roughly by the wrist then pulled him further along the street. The tawny haired man put up no resistance and trailled after the other with a mixture of emotions. All that mattered was he would soon be free from the past that tormented him.

Adam yanked him into an alley: dark, empty, windowless to ensure there would be no-one who could witness this defilement. Whose defilement it was exactly was disputable. Lupin noted several things about the alley that did not make it extraordinarily different than any other alley he was previously in yet the attributes absolutely screamed at him this time. In spite of the familiar scenario, the details were all anew as if this was a first-time performance for him. Rubbish and carelessly discarded bins decorated the pavement and the omniscient aroma of urine saturated the small space. The most obvious thing he noted because it made him feel cornered was that there was only one way in and out of the alley. He felt suffocated, like an animal trapped in a brick and mortar cage. The streetwise manipulation of this loathsome man weighed heavily upon him, making him feel as if he had two choices: lie there and die or chew his own leg off to regain freedom. Lupin was a stubborn survivalist. Contrary to his prior death-wish, he chose the chance to live.

The sound of metal dragging down over metal teeth resounded in his ears and though he wasn't looking directly at the man, Lupin saw Adam fumble with his jeans in his peripheral vision. Then the man reached over, clutched a fistfull of his wavy, unkempt tresses and forced him down upon his knees.

With each passing day Lupin found himself doing more things that compromised his dignity. There were other options for him to obtain what was needed but none were more profitable than servicing randy clientele in this manner. It was also the quickest, easiest way; all he needed to do was go through the mindless physical mechanics of the act while pretending his performance was on someone he loved or at least cared about.

Steadying himself upon his knees in the centre of glittering broken glass, Lupin's volant fingers worked to remove from its cloth prison that part of Adam's anatomy which promoted his disgrace. The werewolf felt queasy as he set to the oral task he had become so proficient in.

He felt it each time he did this: the fibre of his being unravelling like a neglected Oriental rug once revered for its beauty but now reduced to a frayed version of its former glory. Not that anyone had ever found _him_ beautiful in the first place. He had potential before the bite. Each time he sold himself as an anonymous plaything for others he thought of how he disappointed his parents. Whether he knelt in an alley before a man or positioned in an indecent way while a trick pounded into his unreceptive body, his mind always wandered to them, seeking comfort from their memory.

His Mamă, whose love for him flourished rather than drained after the bite. His Tată, whose Muggle mind drowned in whiskey to forget that his only child was condemned to be what the Lupescus spent generations hunting and destroying yet was always ready to protect him from anything. He knew that regardless of his own condition and Tată's inebriated state, his father loved him very much. He was always his little miracle.

"Uhhh!" groaned Adam, shoving further down Lupin's throat and yanking his hair harder in the process.

Lupin clenched his eyes shut, refusing to gag as he clung to thoughts of his loved ones. James Potter, who came to his rescue more than a few times when he was being bullied by a random Slytherin in the shady nooks and crannies of Hogwarts. Lily Evans Potter, who was his redemption in so many secret ways that he never imagined possible...or dared to admit to any one else. Albus Dumbledore, who risked everything by ignoring every law the Ministry issued against the betterment of werewolves to grant him the right to be educated.

Then there was the one responsible for his presence on the street tonight: the infamous Sirius Black. As turbulent as their relationship was, Lupin loved Sirius most of all. Black had always been a reckless free-spirit in need of as much compassion and understanding as Lupin himself. To say that spending twelve years torn apart from the man he adored, convinced he was guilty of such heinous betrayal was torture would be an understatement. It was as hellish as if he himself was locked away rotting in Azkaban.

With Sirius' innocence freshly discovered, their reunion was as much deliverance as it was an open wound. Despite being ravaged by his imprisonment, Sirius remained timeless in beauty and sophomoric in nature. Lupin, changed and jaded in his adult years, was simultaneously vexed by and gratefull for Sirius' consistency. He hated and loved the man in an ambivalent whirlwind that, compounded with their histories, prevented them from any true reconcile. As hard as they tried, it became more impossible with each passing day, especially with Sirius prone to flashbacks and splurges of habitual violence which had been a necessary evil for his survival in prison.

"Fucking slut!" hissed Adam, breaking the tormenting memories as he moved faster and harder. "Filthy little whore!"

Adam seized Lupin by the ears to anchor his head in place before ululating carelessly into the night, spilling his release down the werewolf's throat. Lupin choked and gagged but held steady as he managed to swallow completely. He had to. That was his job.

Placated more by his control over the destitute man than by the despondent act itself, Adam finished then shoved Lupin backwards with additional satisfaction. Landing backwards to fall flat on his arse over the jagged pieces of broken glass and Merlin only knew what type of stains, Lupin gazed up at Adam, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

_Look at me now, Mamă, Tată! Look what became of your little miracle!_

Street survival depends on how good one is at acting. Lupin excelled at it so well that he deserved a BAFTA. The bite coerced him into being an actor for the rest of his life. The ability to veil his feelings behind benign, jovial smiles fared him well thus far in life. Prostituting himself provided him with another nomination, for he had to pretend that he enjoyed whatever humilities the client bestowed upon him. The current moment was added to the list as he offered a fake smile to the hardened man above him.

"If Umbridge knew tha' werewolves 'ave a talent for suckin' cock it'd be one more form of employment ya would be out of," Adam gruffly stated, tucking himself back in.

"Thanks," Lupin emoted sarcastically, not bothering to conceal his bitterness.

"Now then. Wot can _I_ do for _you_, Lupin?"

Again, a choice: receive remuneration for his services by getting off the streets and into some place safe and warm for the night or be alleviated from the nightmares which disrupted his sleep and would trail him wherever he placed his head. In his mind there was no choice. He was aware of what he needed, what his body honestly craved.

"Make yer choice, _wolf_, I don' 'ave all night."

Adam spat the word wolf with such scorn that Lupin grimaced.

"I _really_ need it, Adam," Lupin rasped. "I can't bear being without it. Give it to me. _Please_."

Adam sighed with exertion.

"Very well, then. Why some one would make that choice is beyond me. But it's _your_ choice to make."

Lupin watched with raw hunger as Adam reached into a pocket, withdrew a tiny zip-lock bag filled with a dark brown powder and tossed it to him. Lupin reflexively caught it and immediately raised it to eye level so he could inspect the precious contents.

"Satisfied?" drawled the drug dealer.

"For now," agreed Lupin. "Thanks."

"May all your dreams be pleasant, Lupin."

But Lupin paid no mind to the clacking which announced Adam's exit from the alley. Like shoving sweets into his mouth to ignore discomfort with Alina when he was young, he busied himself with opening the illegal packet and ingesting the entire amount. Spindrifts of newly falling flecks of snow twirled about him like friendly fairies aglow in the artificial light of the streetlamps, frantic with their efforts to warn him against his continual poor judgement.

It was true. There were indeed many things Lupin needed. His severely exhausted body needed to lie in a warm bed so he could be adequately reinvigourated. He needed a steady diet of wholesome meals to end the malnutrition he suffered, thus regaining strength. He needed a shelter to stay in rather than being evicted from various locations he selected. He needed that coveted hot shower to wash away all the stink and grime put on from the streets, to cleanse his humanity.

But more than all of that, Lupin still managed to find one thing more urgent than even those basic necessities. He needed peace from the past, even if it was only temporary. He needed to banish the piercing bruise beneath his eye and the reality of how it got there. He needed to stop feeling the pain, stop seeing the faces, stop remembering all of the tragedy, stop with his self-pitying, stop being the object of so much hatred, even if it was but for an infinitesimal amount of time. He needed an escape and he got one. He forwent his opportunity to be off the streets just to have it.

Remus Lupin chased a different type of dragon than his Mamă chased before he was born and he followed that dragon as it dove into the forgetfull waters of Lethe where he happily drowned.

**Author's Note:** Originally written early last year as a post-war story, I waited to revise "Once a Wolf" to fit it to HBP canon. Fortunately, most of "Once a Wolf" already fit HBP with the exception of Lupin's involvement with Tonks. The story was rewritten and the timeline changed from post-war to GoF timeframe to preserve the integrity of the future Lupin/Tonks relationship. Writing this story brought me out of a very dark place in my life that I was trapped inside for two years and it helped me heal with a great deal of heart-felt soul-searching. In discovering the true character of Remus Lupin, I rediscovered myself. I hope you enjoy it. This entire story is dedicated in memory of my dear friend Pamela Tindall. Special thanks to Michael Dobre for all Romanian translations contained within this story.


	2. Canto 1: Chapters 2 and 3

**Canto One: The Dark Wood of Error  
Section 2**

"There is a beast in man that should be exercised, not exorcised."  
--Anton Szandor LaVey

**Chapter 2**

The man sat on the opposite end of the room yet Constantin Korzha could smell his foul stench as if he were beside him. It was a powerfull combination of ignorance and arrogance that nauseated Constantin so that the glowering man held his breath at intervals. No-one else in the crowded pub was inconvenienced by the smell but Constantin's olfactory senses were far more acute than that of the others present. His profession demanded that of him.

Constantin was a sciential hunter. He needed to be completely aware of his surroundings: how it all smelt, how everything looked in the minutest detail, how it sounded and tasted. These traits, companioned with immense patience and vigilance, were essential for a killer such as him. It all paid off as nearly every night for a month he trailled the man rendezvousing with his mistress at this seedy pub.

A hunter knowing the habits of his prey was a necessity. After spending several nights pursuing him, Constantin knew all there was to know about Elias Wedgewood. He knew that Wedgewood begged for a coronary by consuming ham and eggs each morning. He knew Wedgewood preferred to be driven to the Ministry of Magic where he worked as Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He was aware that quite often the aged wizard had, at minimum, a single Auror around as a bodyguard. Constantin was also aware that the man two tables from Wedgewood was his current Auror escort; whether or not the man was conscious of the impending threat lurking in the corner, Constantin did not know for certain.

Wedgewood's body held an odd odour that was a sour blend of spices both sharp and sweet in addition to the aforementioned stench. It worsened Constantin's pending nausea and was tantamount to the foulness of funeral bouquets. It was an unmistakeable form of identification that made his eyes water and sinuses swell.

_Try to hide your foetid smell of wickedness!_ Constantin thought, his eyes narrowed. _I can _still_ smell you for what you are!_

"Another drink, sir?" a sultry voice inquired.

The sudden question beside him neither startled nor pulled Constantin's hardened gaze from his prey. His senses, ever trenchant, alerted him of the serving wench's presence before she spoke.

"Yes," he responded without anything more.

Only when the zaftig witch parted from his company did his eyes momentarily snatch a look at her plump backside. She was the complete opposite of his own lover but still pleasant to gaze upon. This was a female who knew the importance of fattening herself for the winter rather than starve for vanity's sake. But then his own female could not help that they did not have enough to eat so she was forced into her slim frame whether she wanted to be or not.

Constantin's eyes shifted back to Wedgewood who was being joined by his paramour, a dark haired young girl barely over eighteen. She could have been accepted as the older man's daughter had she not taken her designated place upon his lap and kissed his lips with arms slung around his neck.

The hunter released a discreet growl of objection. Was _anything_ sacred to this immoral bastard? He deserved to die. His taste in women was only the beginning of a long list of Wedgewood's offences. The motive for hunting Wedgewood ran far deeper than his love interests, for he was a main deployer of Anti-Werewolf Legislation. Constantin was a werewolf.

Wedgewood's frequent, out-spoken anti-werewolf demonstrations fuelled the Wizarding world with abundant excuses to oppress and destroy whichever being the man led them to believe was unfit for society, be it werewolf or not. He particularly targeted werewolves because of some story he fabricated about his best friend who was attacked and killed by one in front of him during a childhood camping trip. Right before his very eyes, he claimed to have witnessed the monstrous behaviour of the beast he came to later tyrannise.

Werewolves understood that Wedgewood's story was propaganda invented to rile the masses against them, that they were pawns in the echelon of Ministry promotions. His political trumpery cited examples abound of werewolves' impulsive dementia not just during the full moon but at other times: the young teen who physically assaulted students in the school yard which made it unlawfull for werewolves to attend classes, the woman who attacked and accidentally killed someone as she tried to steal fruit from the market which caused a law to pass stating that werewolves must be terminated when they kill for any reason, even if it is out of necessity. There were various laws regarding employment as well: despite a werewolf's weakened state post-transformation, he must report to work and perform his job satisfactorily or be sacked, a werewolf must inform an employer of his lycanthropic condition even though it would risk discrimination and/or loss of job, a werewolf should never be allowed employment around children...the list seemed endless.

Constantin deliberated on these things, the rancor of injustice a bitter bile on his tongue. The newspapers always told half-truths. The teen in the school yard fought single-handedly against six others who made an attempt on his life after they learned his secret. He was punished for an innate act of survival, a reaction anyone else would also have. The woman at market nicked the apples to feed herself after being rendered penniless, losing her job for taking too much time off in recuperation from the full moon.

These things were not the fault of the werewolf parties, but each served to pass censorious legislation against their kind. These laws were obscene excuses to further enslave and persecute his people. The few werewolves who strove to remain in Wizarding society felt the direct contention of those laws. The majority grew discouraged and decided to try their luck in the Muggle world where their existence passed as fable, or wandered away to live as feral recluses, mingling only among other werewolves. All werewolves, regardless of their choice in which world to partake in, were affected by the Anti-Werewolf Legislation created by Dolores Umbridge in early 1993.

Constantin and his pack walked both sides of the line. They chose to remove themselves from the world, concealled in an Unplottable location in the wilds of Britain, still keeping abreast of all extraneous activities involving werewolves. But they needed to remain one step ahead of their enemies. To do so meant that they also needed to be strategically placed in their midst, play their charade, and obtain vital information which would prove imperative for their operations.

Notwithstanding his want to rebuke both wizard and Muggle society, Constantin took pleasure in intruding on their worlds, penetrating their most impervious defences to learn their secrets. His mètier as a hunter/spy enabled him to also pursue his favourite pastimes: stalking and terrorising. Both proved to have merit for the cause as Constantin, in his chase of Wedgewood, overheard a most curious discussion in the very same pub he now sat in.

That particular night, mid-way through the month, he was lucky enough to overhear a conversation between Wedgewood and his favourite crony Dolores Umbridge. The deplorable pair was muttering about an old crackpot wizard named Albus Dumbledore who kept insisting that the Dark Wizard Voldemort was again rising to power. Constantin, still sober enough to understand the magnitude of what he'd overheard, reelled at the possibility.

As a general note, he distrusted wizards despite of who they were but he also knew that Voldemort offered werewolves freedom in exchange for loyalty in his struggle to purify the Wizarding world's blood. During Voldemort's first rise and before Constantin was bitten, the Korzhas were a prominent pureblood family living in the stranglehold of Nicolae Ceausescu's communist reign. The entire Korzha family adamently supported Voldemort from their far-off Rumanian land. Werewolves took up arms and battled alongside their leader in a promise for a better tomorrow. Always fascinated by the Dark Arts, the young Constantin took particular interest in the war.

As it went, Voldemort was thwarted and annihilated by an enigmatic youngster barely over a year old. While the Wizarding world rejoiced at his defeat, Constantin was confounded that a mere child could destroy the greatest Dark wizard who ever lived. The Korzha family quietly mourned the loss. Constantin took a more extreme approach.

After the disappointing outcome, the despondent eldest child and heir to the Korzha family completed his education at Durmstrang then turned his back to the Wizarding world, seeking work with a different type of evil. Constantin was only eighteen when he substituted Voldemort with Ceausescu, becoming a revered interrogator for the dictator when he was handpicked by the fiend himself after Ceausescu witnessed him torturing a random, hapless victim in an alley. The human monster saw a ripe sadist waiting to be tapped into within the youngster. Countless people were put to death because Constantin pointed an accusatory finger at them. He happily lost all contact with the Wizarding world but relished in utilising his magic to torment his hapless Muggle victims.

As it were, Ceausescu was not the only one who kept an eye on the young man. Everything changed the night he was attacked and bitten at the ripe age of twenty. His newly acquired disease involuntarily shoved him back into the fold of that world which he left behind, only to then be shunned by it. This new development came with terrible anxieties: the werewolves on the losing end of the war reaped the rewards of life sentences in the Werewolf Detainment Unit of Azkaban or torturous, drawn-out executions. It was a terrible dilemma for a new pup to face.

As any responsible child would do, he exiled himself into the mountainous regions of Wallachia with his werewolf maker, not wanting his family to suffer the reprimand and scorn of the community. He had obligations to a new family now.

_You want to make a difference, boy? If you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem!_

Constantin shuddered whenever those words that ripped him from all he knew popped back into his mind like the strangling vines of creeping ivy. They were spoken to him long ago by a visitor to his country: the werewolf who made him.

It was without question that Constantin would take interest in what he overheard inside the pub. The rumoured new rise of Voldemort would no doubt send a flummoxed Wizarding world scrambling for verification. As of yet, there was still no confirmation of the return; nevertheless, Constantin brought the tidings back to his pack who tensed then sent him out again to uncover more information. Dare they hope that Voldemort's proposed return would propell them into a better social standing? Would it be impetuous for them to hope that the injustice their ilk was burdened with be vindicated?

It was elementary that both Voldemort and his adversaries would lobby the werewolves heavily to persuade them on their side. Each would guarantee equality and freedom, deliverance from poverty and persecution. Disgruntled packs would favour the Dark Lord; optimistic ones would go to the opposition. Still many would withdraw into obscurity, afraid to join either side or would wait to see who they could benefit from best.

All in all, Constantin did not trust any of them but he expected to carry on Korzha tradition and support Voldemort. He was a lowly subject playing a large role within a bigger, idealistic werewolf sovereign but he was also a rogue player with goals set for personal gain. His attitude was a role reversal of the intolerance the Wizarding world imposed upon werewolves. He met them with the same deeply entrenched revulsion that they pandered out to him. His reaction to them wasn't _his_ fault. Wizards themselves infused it within him to be that way.

That was the serrated edge which werewolves found themselves sliding down. Since they reverted back to a more honest, natural form one night out of the month, they were treated like beasts at all other times. They were feared for physically becoming what every human being essentially was inside. Hypocrites! Every last one of them! Every man is an animal by truest nature; they were just better at pretending otherwise. So werewolves, a perfect balance of man and animal, suffered for it.

Constantin himself bore no patience for politics. He believed in a strong arm to crush his foes, to take advantage of every weak link. Politics were the superfluous red tape he had to cut through to get anything done and that sickened him. He was a man of action and had no time for bullshit. If someone stole from him, that someone's hand would be chopped off. If another insulted him or caused him harm, it was that person's head which got lopped off next.

The werewolf community continued to listen with irascible edginess as wizard politicians spouted brummagem speeches referencing how society needed protection from the fulsome Dark creatures who masqueraded as humanity. Werewolves were deprived of every fundamental human right through the new Anti-Werewolf Legislation: the right to employment, the right to have a voice in any and all matters, the right to be treated as an equal, the right to be fairly represented within the judicial system, the right to be educated and to use magic. Simply put, they were disarticulated from the right to exist.

Violations of those rights ran rampant as with each passing year the Werewolf Registry promulgated countless injunctions that further tightened the restraints on werewolves which, combined with new requirements, were impossible to meet. Public figures such as Elias Wedgewood and Dolores Umbridge blandished the Wizarding world, blowing blankets of smoke around their motives as they excused their prejudice with empirical tales backed by Wedgewood's infamous albeit redoutable studies on werewolf psychology.

What would the hatemonger know about the habits of those he oppressed? Constantin reflected upon this. It was not as if the politician lived among them to know their behaviours and customs. The Wizarding world was exceptionally nescient when it came to werewolves. There was no credible treatise to either clarify or explain them yet there were abundant texts fuelling the negative fire with pretentious slander based on folklore, superstition and old wives tales.

What did any of them prove when they rejected family and friends who became werewolves? They did not care to learn anything truthfull. It was easier to throw their loved ones away than it was to learn to deal with the tribulations of lycanthropy and this negligent waste of life and liberty made Constantin seethe with anger. As for his own family back in Wallachia, he opted to let them believe he was killed in the attack so there would be no backlash of having a werewolf for a son. There was no belief in his heart that the Korzhas would've alienated him but his choice was for their greater good.

Yet how could the public be expected to sympathise with werewolves when the Ministry remained proactive in isolating and separating them from their rights as a people? The crux of it was that once bitten, a new werewolf forfeits his or her humanity whether willingly or by force. With the war over, werewolves remained suspended in social inertia. Societal status was everything and werewolves were on the lowest rung of the ladder. Changes were for the worse in collective punishment for siding with Voldemort whether the individual did or not. Guilt was automatic for a werewolf.

Constantin's eyes narrowed at the insidious politician while he thought of the one time he was discarded as a werewolf. After divulging his secret to Ihrin Cardei, his childhood friend and girlfriend of three years, nothing could convince her to keep him. He missed her often and despised the insolent bastard responsible for taking her away from him, regardless of how indirect the thief's methods. The bastard sat with a harlot upon his knee and a wife waiting at home while Constantin yearned for what was lost to him. There would never be another love to compare with Ihrin. Not even his current mate who ran with him in the wilderness could quench his need completely.

Was it necessary for werewolves to lose all that mattered to them, all that was rightfully theirs? He choked back tears in recollection of a freshly bitten child left to die by his parents at the forest edge. Before he was discovered, the boy froze to death in the mid-January cold of last year. The pack placed the tiny victim on a pyre and sent his innocent soul to the netherworld where he hopefully found peace then mourned the anonymous child for a week as if he'd been one of their own. Sadly, the boy was not the first, nor would he be the last...all because of this cold-hearted brute and his revolting laws.

Constantin growled softly in his throat. He watched as Wedgewood swallowed the last of his bitter, slamming the stein down with a presiding _clunk!_ that attracted more than the pensive werewolf's attention. The son of a bitch enjoyed each separate glance, savouring it as he passed a cocky grin to no-one in particular.

"I think we should retire for the evening," the werewolf heard Wedgewood mutter to his child mistress. "Don't you agree, Muffin?"

"I certainly do," the tart replied.

The girl - who Constantin knew was named Abigail Proctor - rose from her elder boyfriend's lap and in that instant locked eyes with him. His gaze was intense, refusing to drop as he seared holes straight through her. Like bait skewered on a hook she squirmed within his relentless stare and he was amused. When her lover stood and took her by the arm, he distracted her from the stranger in the dark corner.

"Ready then, Muffin?"

She nodded aimlessly and followed him out the door, the Auror trailling seconds later.

Constantin also left his chair, threw down a few coins for his bill then discreetly slipped outside in pursuit of his prey. He paused briefly to light a cigarette from the pack he kept in the left pocket of his coat, his eyes never straying from the figures walking ahead. He waited to put a good distance between them before he began his chase.

A frigid blast from Mother Nature's invisible fist punched him hard but the werewolf went unphased. His coat was long and woollen, fairly new and, like the money spent in the pub, stolen from a Muggle he robbed a few nights ago. His long dark hair helped insulate his neck and his own flesh was toughened by the deprivation a feral lifestyle bestowed upon him.

As he stalked his quarry, he moved with stealth acquired from skill, continuing undetected. Abigail "Muffin" Proctor, Constantin knew from passed observation, enjoyed taking walks regardless of weather conditions so the pampered Wedgewood was forced to comply. She did not live far, a short fifteen minute stroll from the pub they left, which was the reason why the establishment was a frequently chosen meeting place. The idea was to appease Wedgewood into not making a real fuss. Constantin smirked at the price his enemy paid for having a fit lover.

Rain now fell heavily; for this the werewolf was ingratiated. The sheets of water would be a wonderfull shield blurring him from sight. He had no fear of missing them for as long as he could follow Wedgewood's trademark stench he could not be lost.

Five minutes into the walk found the Auror halting, much to Constantin's dismay. The werewolf, too, halted and managed to go unseen as he slipped around a corner. Able to remove himself from view before the Auror turned, Constantin thought his intristic wolven senses were better than psychic.

"Wait, Mr Wedgewood," the Auror advised in a calm tone instiled by his own training.

"What is it _now_?" Wedgewood snarled testily.

"I think we're being followed. Perhaps we should stay closer together."

"Followed?" Did Constantin detect a hint of panic in the ancient wizard's voice? "Are you certain? Did you _see_ any one?"

"No. But I didn't need to." Then lower: "I can _feel_ it."

"Well, hurry along! We must make sure Miss Proctor arrives at her flat in safety."

The sense of urgency in Wedgewood's voice accelerated their walk after the Auror reluctantly deserted his search for the unseen nemesis. When Constantin turned back around the corner and picked up their trail, he noticed the arm Wedgewood possessively wrapped around his Muffin as well as the hand the Auror kept concealled inside his coat.

Constantin was unafraid for he too had a wand even though werewolves were not permitted to own or use one. The day he registered as a werewolf, the Werewolf Registry wanted to repossess the wand but he told them that it was lost in the forest during the attack. The idiots believed him too. It was nice to have available even though he preferred utilising his hunting ken. Use of magic was more appealling on unsuspecting Muggles.

He knew he would need magic against his enemy's bodyguard. The skills of the Auror impressed the werewolf. He looked forward to contesting them. The wizard was no neophyte; he knew he was being tracked without seeing or hearing traces of evidence. Here was a worthy opponent, one who was almost as cunning as he was. Almost.

Constantin wanted badly to put that to the test.

Detouring, the prowling werewolf navigated toward the back, rounding the next corner with thoughts of excited rage coursing through his mind. He acquired the feeling that the unsettled Auror intuitively halted and himself turned on his heels to check his notion of being followed. The werewolf was confident that the bodyguard missed him.

Once out of sight on the next block, he quickened his pace, his sinuous legs carrying him beyond the one set by his enemies. Luckily he knew where Muffin resided, a pearl of information ascertained from his nocturnal stalkings.

He reached the building then gazed up at the third storey window of her flat. It was not difficult to locate for it was the one with a jungle of house plants and a red tabby cat chewing on the leaves of one of them. A three-year feral life strengthened Constantin in more ways than sharpening his hunting skills, for it also gave his body the agility to perform physical acts that would've been written off as supernatural when in fact all it happened to be was his being more attuned with the wolf within. It was a primal gift enhanced by living naturally in spite of the constraints Wizarding society placed upon his kind, one of the benefits given to them unwittingly. Summoning the ever-present wolf, he jumped high enough to grab hold of the rusty fire escape ladder which he yanked down in an echoing, teeth-scraping screech then a loud bang.

A dog barked zealously in the distance, the cat inside Muffin's window gawked owl-eyed at him. He checked to see if any eye, wizard or Muggle, drew inquiring attention to him. Receiving his answer in the negative, Constantin began a speedy ascension of the ladder, depending on the lightless section of the street paired with his stealth to reach the destination undetected.

He made it!

He wrapped the wool muffler from his coat pocket around the knuckles of his clenched fist then punched through the window, sending the cat scuttling for cover. He knocked out as much glass as needed to enable him to crawl inside, knocking over pots of plants in his wake.

_Crunch! Crunch!_

The sound of broken glass crushing beneath his thick-soled boots made him wince as it contrasted the deafening silence and he briefly paused...untill he heard muffled voices and rattling keys being inserted into the lock of the front door. Heart pounding, he left the kitchen, raced through the living quarters where his prey would soon enter and dodged into the bedroom suite just as the door swung open. Now he was able to better understand their words as they stepped inside and the first voice he heard was that of his most detested enemy.

"Wait one moment, Muffin. Let Ajax go in first."

"_Really_, Elly!" The pout in her voice was loud and clear. "I'm sure everything is all right."

"Will you just let him go first, you daft bint!"

Constantin ducked into the wardrobe, tense muscles knotting his back and shoulders, preparing to spring when the time came. A single Auror was _not_ going to bring him down regardless of his skills. Without the usual claque of cronies, Wedgewood was in the palm of his hand.

All conversation halted from the room while Ajax the Auror probed the flat for intruders. The broken window in the kitchen flashed through the predator's mind seconds before Ajax reported his discovery of it, warning Wedgewood and Muffin to keep back.

"I _told_ you someone was following us," Ajax hissed as he passed Wedgewood and his girlfriend.

A succession of furtive footsteps rebounded in Constantin's ears as Ajax closed the gap.

Through the lounge...

Into the hallway...

The Auror was excellent at stalking but he was no match for Constantin. A classic case: an educated hunter versus a natural killer. The werewolf could hear the man's approach, smell his sour sweat.

_Creeeeeak!_

The hallway cupboard was being searched.

Constantin braced himself inside the wardrobe, shutting the door so only a narrow crack was left for him to monitor Ajax's progress.

A dark shadow crossed the threshold of the room before the Auror's hulking figure cautiously entered.

Constantin readied himself, fingers wrapped around his wand.

Ajax surveyed the room then began a search, beginning with the small cupboard across the room.

The hidden werewolf held his breath, wand gripped within a white-knuckled fist, waiting.

The Auror made the mistake Constantin was waiting for: he turned his back to the wardrobe.

As Constantin exited his hideaway, Ajax got down on this hands and knees to check underneath the bed.

Constantin crept closer, an animal slinking through the jungle, awaiting the opportunity to pounce. His eyes glassy with the brilliance of insanity, his wand withdrawn from the confines of the heavy coat he wore.

Ajax slowly rose from his crawling position, signalling to his observant foe that his presence was known.

Constantin's eye trained on the Auror's centre, heedfull of the right hand which he knew the man favoured.

The Auror's arm inched to the location where the werewolf knew his wand was hidden.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," growled Constantin, his voice low and menacing.

At first Ajax paused, seeming to find wisdom in that he was outwitted. Constantin kept himself on edge, prepared for what was inevitable, for there was no way he believed the Auror would acquiesce. It was not in _any_ Auror's nature to give in without a fight.

Ajax's hand shot inside his coat, endeavouring to out-manoeuvre the werewolf.

It was the excuse Constantin needed.

A green light seared through the room as the Unforgiveable was uttered.

"Avada Ke--"

That was all Ajax managed to hear before falling lifeless with a dull _thunk!_ to the floor.

**Chapter 3**

One is never more alone than when among a crowd. It reminds how truly secluded a person is while surrounded by those who either have their own business with which to attend or were inside a smaller group of friends, completely unmindfull of all else.

Despite that philosophy, Evangeline Redgrave strolled through Covent Garden for the simple purpose of being around others. It was something she did often: purchase a cup of tea at one of the various cafès, never choosing the same flavour or establishment twice, then proceed with some wishfull window shopping. On rare but better days she was able to actually treat herself with a small trinket which captured her eye during those walks.

Surrounding herself with others was a necessity even though seeing people happily together instiled an ache within her; the flat was too empty now that Patrick was gone. While out, she carried no expectations of meeting another. Life was complicated enough without being involved in a new relationship at the moment. Besides, it was too soon after her very recent break-up with Patrick. The present was not a good time...but she always went to Covent Garden with the hope of catching a glimpse of _him_.

A fortnight ago was when she first spotted him; an eternity back into another world when the weather was slightly warmer and Patrick still occupied the left side of the bed. Much like the gorgonised children who clustered around him, she was equally mesmerised by the phantasmagoria he performed for the pocket change of passers-by. Intimidated by his remarkable talent for magic, other buskers refused to work near him for he easily stole the attention of curious adults, enthraled children and inveigled tourists. Affronted by his success, his fellow buskers moved to alternative locations that proved more profitable for them.

Evangeline marvelled when out of thin air he produced chocolate for the children and single red roses for the ladies in his captivated audiences. There were other simple tricks: turning handkerchiefs into different colours as they remained seated in a gentleman's breast pocket, lighting cigarettes with fire from an igneous index fingertip, taking rings from random spectator's fingers for them to reappear inside an ice cube within their drinks, tapping empty boxes that refilled with popcorn or cups with coke or lemonade, touching vacant pavement and conjuring an animal, usually a rabbit, or levitating many objects he commanded to play like acrobats in mid-air. These all could have been dismissed as mere sleight of hand.

Untill she saw the wand.

Of course! This man was so adept with magic because he was a wizard! But _why_ would a competent, talented wizard such as him be a street performer in Muggle London?

Within moments of this revelation, Evangeline pieced the clues together. The wizard appeared terribly run-down as if he'd been ill when she first saw him. Other characteristics then fell into place. He had an ancient sort of youth; the lines on his handsome face belied a life of hardship. Dark circles of restless nights grooved beneath tired eyes. Flecks of grey accented his tawny hair, telling tales of worry and a collection of problems ranging from where to sleep to how to keep warm. He was gaunt, a lingering sombre fact that he never got enough to eat. The darned and patched clothing he wore was threadbare and couldn't possibly provide sufficient warmth against the harsh weather.

All of the obvious signs were there and Evangeline was keen to them. Her sweet-natured wizard busker was a werewolf. Notice of his circumstance neither frightened the young woman nor deterred her from returning for a glimpse of him. A glimpse, she told herself, to check on his welfare, for there was something about him that enticed her.

This did not go beyond Patrick's detection. Patrick, a wizard who generally kept an open mind, was found wanting when it came to werewolves. Unfortunately, werewolves were Evangeline's working cause as she was employed in Werewolf Services in the Being Division of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The only aspect Patrick liked about her work was the garrulous explanation of where she was employed. The long-named locale, he teased, impressed that she was more important than she really was.

"To those people, I _am_ important, Patrick," she'd insisted in a terse tone.

"You cater to _animals_, Evangeline. Animals that the world would be better without."

"They aren't animals, they're _people_ just like you and I."

"Tell that to your boss, then. I'm certain _he'd_ love to hear your theories about how _human_ those monsters are."

Evangeline did not speak to her condescending arse-of-a-boyfriend for three days after that argument. It was one thing to disagree with her line of work but his outright mockery of her convictions was an insult she refused to tolerate.

Patrick, in his defence, was a Healer in the Dai Llewellyn Ward of St. Mungo's, which was why he felt obligated to always be on about the mutilated victims of werewolf attacks brought in for treatment, stating that his fact outweighed her theoretical fiction. He argued that more and more victims were brought in on a monthly basis; that Britain was losing control of the brutal beasts and needed to tighten its hold over them.

At first Evangeline, who met Patrick when she brought a newly bitten werewolf in for Ministry-mandated examination and recuperation, thrilled at his difference of opinion. The rows escalated into passion that found its way into the bedroom but it grew more frustrating than exciting as he took sarcastic jabs at her in public or at social events. Usually she remained silent, the belief that she did the right thing with her work strengthening her standing.

She could spend a lifetime expounding the Wizarding world on a werewolf's humanity but as long as the Ministry of Magic issued tenets accusing werewolves of being Dark creatures fit to be controlled, subdued and even destroyed then it was pointless. The very presence of her department proved the Ministry's blatant hypocrisy. She and her coterie in Werewolf Support Services strove to build everything the Ministry fought to tear back down.

There was one saving grace. Whenever Evangeline felt like she was tangled in a Pyrrhic cause, she visited the safehavens she helped create. Interacting with the many men and women living within them made everything worthwhile. They always treated her with the utmost respect and gratitude for her help. Those who did not or were unable to speak showed thankfulness in their eyes, an appreciation that shone beyond the haunted expression of despair etched inside them.

Unlike Patrick, Evangeline never retained a phobia of werewolves. Rather she extended a hand toward them and other oppressed beings, lending them a political voice in addition to the life essentials of clothing, food and shelter. She desired to help these downtrodden people whom she came to know and care deeply for, to transcend the limitations of prejudice, giving them a chance at life by allowing them equal opportunity.

Her heart went out to the handsome busker in a special way. She observed his genial behaviour, particularly with the children, and commiserated with him. Society's discarding of one who appeared to be a wonderfull person was a dour backlash on that society and it disgusted her.

Discovering that he was a werewolf caused an assortment of inquires to gather in her mind. How did he end up with his malediction? What kind of a life might he have led if he was never bitten? How old was he when it happened? Did he have someone who loved him? Where was she now if he did? Did she quit loving him and leave him after he received the bite? Did he have any children of his own? He certainly adored the ones who surrounded him with a gentleness that she found herself in awe of.

The second time they spotted him, she and Patrick were sitting on the kerb enjoying a relaxing cuppa after a particularly trying day-after-the-full-moon for the Healer. The weather one week ago was cool enough for a jumper but warm enough to sit outside. Autumn prefaced the early winter with burgeoning riots of mustard, sienna, burnt-oranges and burgundies. Evangeline paid no mind to anything or any one in specific when Patrick nudged her with an elbow.

"There's your pet wolf," he taunted.

When she looked in the direction where he pointed, her eyes fell upon the amiable werewolf distributing sweets to a group of mobbing children. He looked sick and assailable, hinting that the day after the night's transformation hadn't been kind to him. She didn't expect it to be; he _was_ homeless after all. Nevertheless, he maintained a cheerfull disposition and offered whatever he had to the children. She sympathised with his plight and tears threatened to betray her.

"Christ, Angie," the ever-snide Patrick remarked. "He looks like shit."

"You would too if you had a night as harsh as his," Evangeline snapped back, feeling protective of the troubled wizard.

Abated by her sharp, unexpected reaction, Patrick opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, confiscated an abandoned magazine from nearby to read and stewed in anger.

Later that same night, they engaged in a quarrel that had the neighbours pounding on the walls. She was fed up with Patrick's obdurate insensitivity. Patrick was sick of her bleeding heart for dumb and dangerous animals, especially one in particular who lived in one of her safehavens. In the end, they parted ways, he returning the next day to remove his possessions while she was at work. She hadn't seen him since, which was perfectly acceptable with her. She dealt with ignorance all around her; she had no energy to return home to it in the form of Patrick Sinclair.

Evangeline sighed, her eyes stinging from a passing cold gale. She remained focused on the kindly gentleman, wanting to approach him, offer solace or her services and place him in a safehaven where he could recover from the full moon, or at least a hot drink. Today the audience members were not being as generous as they should have been. She wondered if the poor werewolf had enough to buy the hot beverage she lacked the courage to give.

A few coins jangled in her palm from inside her coat pocket. She had something to give but no bravery to give it. Her fear was absurd, she realised, but she was always that way with men she found attractive. She wanted so badly to speak with him. Should she? Would he take her charity as goodwill or unwanted pity?

_Jingle, jingle, jingle!_

Her fingers manipulated the coins that were now warmed by her touch.

Yes?

No?

She swirled the remnants of her lukewarm tea.

Perhaps it would be more prudent if she asked him to join her rather than throw him change like everyone else. Doing so would stand her out from the rest and display her desire for companionship.

_Jingle_ - yes! _Jangle_ - no!

More children added themselves to those already encompassing him. Evangeline watched with utmost interest as the werewolf performed his animal-out-of-thin-air trick, this time transfiguring a tin can into a dove. The bird perched on his forearm, cooed then fluttered its wings and soared away. The children released appreciative _oooo_'s and _ahhh_'s before shrieking and applauding. Ever the performer, her werewolf bowed and thanked the crowd.

Evangeline's heart palpitated faster when a few spectators dropped coins into the cup near his feet. For one brief, momentous instant his eyes met hers and held them like a familiar embrace before moving back to the children who requested more sweets.

The instant they passed tentative looks at each other her heart sank to her feet upon notice that his handsome face was bruised beneath his left eye. _What happened?!_ Was he attacked for the small amount of change he earned? Her worrisome nature consumed her terribly. Who could _do_ such a thing to this man? She strangled a sound of pity before it left her throat.

Her own gaze dropped to the cup she nursed in her hand, now containing but a mouthfull of cold tea. She gave it another couple of swirls before downing it and crumpling the cup in her fist. She rose from the kerb and took another longing glance at her werewolf.

He did not look at her again so she did not look away. Once more her hand played with the coins in her pocket as she contemplated. Should she? Shouldn't she? Yes? No?

_Clink! Clink!_

Evangeline made the best choice for the moment: she walked away, back towards her flat.

Performing in Covent Garden was something Lupin greatly enjoyed. It was one good, honest way to earn money without any degradation. The children were an incentive, their expressions worth more than all the money in the world. Adults too gave excited reactions but none could compare with the gift from the gods that were the children. Truth be known, they were the sole reason he returned to his corner in exploitation of his magical prowess. Their smiling faces put a terrible, sweet yearning inside him for what could have been were he not a werewolf.

He fondly recounted how in his youth he snuggled in the arms of his parents whenever the opportunity presented itself. Often they spent time sitting before a toasty fire, Remus nestled between them, each in the arms of all while they read aloud, told stories or recited poetry. This was how Lupin obtained his deep love for literature. Those winsome moments of familial bonding did not cease after he was bitten but instead increased. With the loss of his friends, the youngster absorbed the attention ravenously as any child would, particularly one as sentient as little Remus.

All dreams of recreating those experiences with his own child were nothing more than a fantasy. Gone were the vespertine tuck-ins and bedtime stories. Snatched away were the midnight requests for water or sneaks into his bed and arms with fear of a storm or the closet monster. Taken away were all the kissings of cuts, scrapes and bruises, the troves of firsts treasured by new parents.

Lupin was close to his parents and wanted nothing more than to be a father. It was possible for a male werewolf to produce offspring with a healthy witch but the unlawfull result would be a born lycanthrope. Impregnation was not an option since he refused to create a child who would share his horrible disease from birth. Bringing an innocent into the world who would carry a painfull gene that the Wizarding world believed inferior was a sin in his eyes. It would be too much to bear knowing he was responsible because of his own selfish reasons.

Another method of reproduction was to inflict the disease on a young child with a bite like the maniacal Fenrir Greyback did to him but Lupin understood too well how it felt to be a child nearly maulled to death in a frightening attack only to later become a monster that tore itself to pieces once a month. He could never bring himself to condemn a child to that torture. Reproduction in such a heinous manner was the _worst_ sin imaginable, justifiably answered with execution. It was absolutely out of the question and he shuddered at the thought of repeating the wrong on another child what was done to him. His heart shattered in remembrance of how the depraved Greyback ripped his childhood away from him. Regardless of how desperately he ached for progeny of his own he would never, _never_ commit a moral or legal crime to have it.

Having a child would also introduce a sundry amount of problems to his already troubled life. If he bit the child, there was an obligation to remove it from its biological parents so he could raise and protect it himself, insuring that it wouldn't be destroyed. He would have to raise it as a werewolf in an anti-werewolf world. It would not be an easy task to accomplish: werewolves who infect someone with a bite are forced to be itinerant or else are hunted and sentenced to death.

Lupin shuddered at the implications. As much as he disagreed with Ministry officials, death as payment for an infectious bite was the one thing he supported them on. All of the convoluted laws passed were unnecessary for most werewolves and counted among them Lupin would never permit himself to have that which he wanted most out of life. Neither would the civil population of werewolves. For the most part, werewolves were good people forced into dire consequences and committed crime out of necessity. The problem generally resided in the ferals.

Female werewolves, he surmised, were barren, unable to carry a foetus in a body that contorts monthly into another form. The child would probably die in the womb from the travails of transformation. Their punishment would be the same if for nothing more than trying. All werewolves, male or female, who effectively reproduced through conception were sterilised, the offspring aborted. Sections of the Anti-Werewolf Legislation strictly prohibited werewolf procreation by any method, deeming it a verboten act even in thought.

_Help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered._

The public service phrase uttered daily by an American game show host left a vile taste in Lupin's mouth.

Alas, he substituted being a parent with performing magic for Muggle children who believed the Big Bad Wolf to be a mere fairy tale invented to frighten them into obedience. _Le_ _Petit Chaperon Rouge_. And _he_ was the Big Bad Wolf. He knew he shouldn't be around children at all being that the law prohibited him, but their presence gave him a terrific sense of fulfilment. He loved each of the tender innocents who begged him for magic and chocolate. His disease did not matter to them and they loved him in spite of it. With them he found the acceptance he desperately sought.

Sadly, it did not matter to the Ministry that Remus Lupin was an upstanding citizen so long as Moony the Werewolf howled during full moon nights. That was reason enough to prevent his contact with children as if he was a nefarious sex offender rather than a man suffering from affliction. _Like a leper_, he thought resentfully. The Werewolf Code of Conduct forbade him to go near even Muggle children but it was less likely for him to be monitored within the non-magical world, simplifying it for a werewolf to live among the Muggles. That was why so many werewolves chose to make their way in the Muggle world. It was also why Lupin found himself among Muggle children, enjoying their company amid his yearning.

Lupin sighed in exasperation after the children emptied his chocolate-filled pockets then at last abandoned him, leaving him with the lingering desire for his own child. He felt cheated out of having a family. He didn't have the heart to intentionally burden a wife and children with his problems yet he could not help but to fantasize about if things were different for him.

Along came the bombardment of what-if scenarios. If he didn't have lycanthropy he might've married the pretty Ravenclaw he dated for two years in school. Maybe he might've married Lily in place of James. Maybe Harry might've been _his_ son, which would've made the world a completely different place. Perhaps he would be married to the beautifull brunette witch he discovered watching him for a fortnight.

Whether her regard for him was of interest or repulsion he knew not. Either way she intrigued him, drew him to her somehow. Her gaze made him feel _wanted_, a refreshing feeling for him, but he was addled by her evident curiosity. The more often she returned the more fortified his own wonder became.

Initially, he met her with scepticism. It was possible that the Werewolf Registry sent her to implicate him for something or encumber him with a new law he unknowingly broke. But she took no notes with a quill and parchment as Ministry officials commonly did and instead cracked open a thick tome to read, an action that warmed his deadened heart with rapture. Beauty did not come to see the Beast's magic act; perhaps Beauty came because there was real magic between her and the Beast.

Lupin realised his instinct was correct after a game of eye tag. When he caught her watching the first time, she quickly dropped her gaze to the cup in her hand since she had no book that day. On occasion, a handsome wizard accompanied her and they spent their time reading, Lupin finding her using the book as reticence to steal glances at him, all spoilt by his return look.

Soon after their first appearance, the wizard ceased in joining her and Lupin culminated that the couple's relationship dissolved. His hopefull heart soared in thinking that he was why they split up but he could not bring himself to fully believe that. The beautifull witch still made her journeys to watch him but continued dodging his eyes.

Untill one day their eyes managed to lock and this time she did not look away. His love-starved soul resonated with an array of emotions. Hope that a woman would take interest and love him. Need for affection too long denied him. Fear that his secret would frighten her away. Terror that he would inadvertently murder her while in lupine form. The moment was curtailled when one of his child-fans tapped his arm with a request for more sweets which he readily provided.

A common misconception about Remus Lupin was that he was diffident and shy. In truth, he never needed to be since most people didn't bother the unassuming boy reading in a corner. As a man he was even more masterfull at being inconspicuous, managing to discreetly blend into the background. No, Lupin wasn't shy, he was merely withdrawn, an affect of the customary rejection he met with for most of his life. With lycanthropy he became a pariah, which he long ago accepted. It was habitual second-nature for him to avoid the eventuated revealling that he was a werewolf and the subsequent disappointment of being shunned. It was not a timid bashfullness that forced him from others but a natural fear of rejection. Far from being the nebbish person others mistook him for, he was so used to being pushed away that he started staying away from others on his own accord.

For that reason alone he did not approach the lovely witch. She craved his presence at the moment but would recoil in disgust from him later. It was a letdown he did not wish to sustain, not with the agony of Sirius' attack still fresh. Two particularly hurtfull experiences were not on his agenda.

Besides, he did not trust himself around her. The wolf was always prepared to pounce; he could feel it underneath his flesh, clawing for freedom in conjunction with the vermicular crawl of his ruinous addiction. It was impossible to decipher which of the two was worse to deal with. Already he felt the clammy sweat and ragged breathing brought on by his need for opium. Both wolf and the plant of joy wrecked pandemonium on his life and there was no room for the pretty witch.

He did not deserve her any way. Conversely, she did not deserve the hell he would have reserved for her. She could do better than a homeless, unemployed werewolf who sold himself to support his opium compulsion. Lupin didn't need to know anything else about her to realise that. Wolf aside, how could he expect her to want to live with an overbearing junkie?

What made him think she would even find him attractive? She was far too beautifull and he was shabby and unclean, nothing to desire, something to look passed rather than at. The thought occurred to him that perhaps she was indeed peering beyond him at another and he refused to set himself up for disappointment.

Pain and discomfort which he knew would escalate began its mild invasion through his body. Very soon he would need to search for relief and wondered if Adam was around. Pushing a loose strand of his longish hair back from his eyes, he contemplated his alternative source, knowing that he didn't manage to collect enough change to pay the drug baron.

_I can pay! In...other ways._

_Not _this_ time, Adam. I need to draw a line _somewhere

Oddly enough, the determination to preserve his dignity at least for the day strengthened Lupin's self-esteem. Perhaps one day the pretty witch would work up the nerve to approach him. Perhaps he would gather enough courage himself to speak to her. Nothing good will ever be allowed to come of it; either by his own hand or Ministry interference, of that he was certain. Would the risk be worth the effort? He remained indecisive of what tomorrow would bring.

For now he had no intention of breaking the silence that gulfed them. Seeing her again, however, might encourage him otherwise.


	3. Canto 1: Chapter 4

**Canto One: The Dark Wood of Error  
Section 3**

"Democracy must be something more than two wolves and a sheep voting on what to have for dinner."  
--James Bovard, Civil Libertarian (1994)

**Chapter 4**

_"As-tu perdu l'esprit?! Tu dèlires?! Je n'y crois pas! Tu es fou! Tu dèrailles!"_

With both French and Rumanian belonging to the Romance language family, Constantin Korzha understood enough of Julien Charlebois' stream of speech to get the message. It was loud and clear. Even if it wasn't, comprehension was unavoidable after Charlebois slammed the evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ down on the table between them. The headline blaired in enormous bold lettering:

**UNFORGIVEABLE! AUROR AJAX HAMMERSTEIN MURDERED!  
Werewolves Accused!**

"Do you know what this could _mean_ to us?!" hissed Charlebois as he leaned over the table so his words could be emphasised in a hushed tone. "You put everything we've worked for in jeopardy!"

Korzha kept aloof in the face of his outraged Alpha-Male. Loss of temper was unlike the urbane Frenchman and the hunter knew the normal even-tempered disposition of his leader would return after berating him if he restrained from comment. That infuriated Charlebois further still.

"You are doing nothing more than exacerbating the rift between werewolves and wizards," rollicked Charlebois. "Your fainéant actions are gratuitous and detrimental to all that we strive for!"

"It was _one_ Auror, Julien," Korzha reminded, pushing the newspaper back across the table, not looking at it as he did.

"Ajax Hammerstein was _no mere_ Auror, Constantin. He was the _best_ Auror the Ministry had."

"How tragic if he was the best! Who is alive to tell the tale?"

_"Ne poussez pas votre chance! Vous pissez j'au loin!"_

"Calm yourself, Julien, you are drawing attention!"

_"Je m'en fiche complètement!"_ Then lower: "You have _besmirched_ us!"

"Stop being melodramatic. We are werewolves, we cannot be more stained than we already are."

"I am trying to accomplish our freedom and establish our human rights with our manifesto..."

"They could care less about your manifesto _or_ us!"

"...with our manifesto on the verge of being presented to the public, how am I supposed to mitigate them long enough for them to listen?"

"It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"I should hope not, Constantin. Your disobedience _will_ be punished. You _must_ be reminded who is Alpha-Male and why. Do _not_ dare to contest me."

A frosty glare from Julien's eyes would've unsettled any one else in the pack but Korzha's past rendered him unmalleable. The old wolf's epistemic instincts raised a flag perceiving a more aggressive, upcoming young male in his right-hand man. He would need to be wary of the headstrong whelp which was precisely why he chose to keep the younger wolf close to him: the wise adage of keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.

Charlebois sucked in a deep breath and raised a hand to his pinched brow in effort to not explode. Korzha would suffer for his transgressions later. While the man was more lenient on delinquent members of the pack, the wolf was not. The full moon was a little less than another fortnight away but the wolf in him would sustain enough human memory to recall the indiscretions.

"I do not wish to upset you, Julien," excused Korzha with a connotation of challenging animosity. "I was doing what was necessary to survive."

Charlebois raised his head from his hand, eyes blazing.

"What was necessary to _survive_? What were you doing in the bed chamber? You were instructed to _monitor_ Wedgewood, _not_ to make contact with him!"

"I didn't make contact with _him_..."

"Same difference! It could have easily been him! Imagine the media circus your aversion to following orders has already caused! It could finish us!"

"I will be in your good graces again, Julien. What will I do to win your favour?"

Charlebois sighed, flustered. He waited for the calm to befall him, relaxing with a few deep breaths. If he didn't remove himself from Korzha's presence he felt like he would strangle the Rumanian. All he wanted to do was go home, think things over and give the young wolf a miscellaneous, complex task that would set him straight or, at the very least, keep him busy.

He was at a loss untill he looked across the room of the packed out pub they were in and recognised a man sitting alone in a corner. The loner looked ill as if he was about to vomit, his face sweaty and eyes darting around in search of someone before dropping down to his coat. He watched as the loner reached into a pocket to produce a scrolled up ancient bit of parchment. An idea came to him.

Leaning closer still towards Korzha, he muttered: "Do you see that man in the corner?"

Both werewolves glanced unobtrusively at the table where a man fidgeted with his hands as he read the worn parchment by the candle alight before him.

"Yes. What of him?"

"His name is Remus Lupin..."

_To my dearest Moony:_

_I know I've been a right bastard to you, which is nothing new. I've never been ace at expressing much of anything outside of mirth from childish pranks or unadulterated rage. All I was ever allowed to be was angry; I either spent my time having arms with my family or playing the part of the greatest miscreant who ever docked the doors of Hogwarts. Well, _one_ of the greatest. I had loads of help with_ that_. Crack a smile, Moony, you know you want to._

_Neither my family nor my past excuse my actions and I confess I my need to grow up a lot but you must agree that anger was the only emotion they let me express. Being locked up in the nick for so bloody long, removed from any humane touch has, I'm afraid, boilled the vicious blood in my veins which binds me to my dark surname. I have too many hang-ups and I, as well as you, am knackered by justifications._

_I am sorry for everything, Remus. I've spent too long away from the only friend who ever gave a damn for me. I regret being so beastly to you when all you've done was try to make amends for our lost time. You merely attempted to be the friend for me that I can never manage to be for you. From the soles of my feet to the hair atop my head, I cannot seem to say it often enough:_ I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! _Sorry I'm such a berk. Sorry I didn't react differently on that long ago night which separated us so tragically. Sorry for the ill treatment you received throughout your life. Hell, I'm sorry for the moon monthly rising in such a fashion and making you lose yourself. Please return to me and I will try my damnedest to be a better person. I promise._

_On a lighter note, I received a letter from Harry - quite a few at this point - and things are all mucked up. S'pose it _isn't_ such a lighter note, Moony. Says his scar's hurting. We know what that implies. By the time you receive this correspondence I shall be returned to Scotland. I have to be near him, to actually perform the duties our long lost Prongs entrusted me with. I've cocked up with you so I need to do right by Harry. It's the least I could do. I know you understand but I'm not positive that you care any more._

_Harry's letters have me cacked, Moony. He told me about the scar then retracted his fears. I know he did so out of alarm for my safety but the importance of his safety exceeds mine. I cannot reveal my precise location to you after I reach Scotland but I would like to arrange a time and place to meet you._

_Come back to me, Moony. Please give me another chance. You and Harry are all I have left. Please don't bin me off._

_Forever yours,  
Padfoot_

Lupin folded the parchment and placed it inside his coat pocket. The owl that delivered it had pecked expectantly at his fingers but when he opened his hand to show its vacancy to the bird, it twittered an incredulous gripe then cleared off to find its way back to Black.

Lupin absently stroked his black-and-blue cheek. The mark remained irritably tender but the swelling had gone down. The ugly bruise that replaced the knot proved most unfavourable for the busking business. No-one, particularly children, trusted a battered man enough to pay him for a few magic tricks no matter how stellar those tricks were. He didn't blame them.

He didn't want to think of it or Black at the moment. Nor did he plan to write him back so he was glad the disappointed messenger left. He would write in his own time. Let Black think he was at last finished with him. Let him think that he pulled the last bolt of wool over his eyes. Let him think whatever he wanted, Lupin did not care. Not any more. Not for now at least. More pressing matters were at hand.

Many hadn't stopped for him today and fewer gave anything. He counted the coins in his palm and noticed in disgruntlement that he'd scraped up barely enough for a pint at the Dragon's Breath but not enough for what he needed from Adam. That was fine. He'd set up a time to meet his other source here, due in at any minute. _Where was he?_ He nervously scanned the room with his eyes, peering passed the woman who served the absinthe he ordered.

"Thank you," he uttered soft-spokenly but continued to look over her, _through_ her, for the person on whom he waited. She was indifferent as she shuffled off to deliver the next order.

The Dragon's Breath was a rowdy rathskeller Lupin patronised to drown his sorrows in absinthe and opium. A filthy, obscure hole-in-the-wall, it was where the worst of Wizardkind went to concoct wrongs against society; an ideal place for werewolves to trade the miserable pittances they earned for respite from their troubled lives. The rooms were always choked with cigarette smoke and every time he left the stench stayed embedded in his skin, hair and the fibres of his clothing. Lupin was immune to it from his frequent visits, plus in times such as this when his need to quell the addiction ran rampant through his system, he could care as less about the atmosphere than he did about Black's correspondence.

Thankfully the environment was uncommonly tame tonight so he imagined his guest would not receive a feeling of dislocation although the man was a malcontent who would never find anyplace suitable. He complained often and, frankly, Lupin was desperate enough for intellectual conversation that he did not care. He would drown out the negativity with drink and drug.

Lupin's observance of the door was distracted when two hardened wizards whipped out their wands and pointed them at each other. _Entertainment at its best_, he thought morosely. Two burly employees raced to separate the pair and Lupin watched with mild disappointment as they were dragged off in opposite directions, tusselling to get back at each other when a dark voice drawled:

"What would Dumbledore say if he knew his favourite werewolf caroused in a hellhole with common criminals?"

Despite the fingernails upon a blackboard effect the cheeky words had on Lupin's insides, the werewolf outwardly smiled as if greeting a long lost lover.

"Severus! How good to see you!"

"Let's be truthfull, shall we, Lupin? It isn't _me_ you wish to see but the poison in my pocket."

Lupin raised an eyebrow as Snape sat across from him.

"Do you have it?"

"I didn't agree to meet you here for tea and scones."

Lupin watched with sweaty palms as Snape reached into his robes and sneaked the gift to him beneath the table. The werewolf was amused by this action since the majority of people inside the rathskeller were there for more dubious reasons than sharing an opium laced cigarette with an old...what? Acquaintance? Colleague? Lupin wasn't about to waste time pondering what Snape was in relation to him. Placing the brown bag on the table top, he eagerly opened it and removed one of six opium rollies inside.

"Pace yourself, Lupin," Snape advised, "that has to last."

"I'll try, Severus, but it isn't easy when it feels like I've got something inside me trying to claw its way out."

Snape gave a cruel half-smile that reminded Lupin of a more sinister version of Sirius' mischievous half-grin.

"Don't you?" he remarked and it was like an icicle piercing the werewolf's heart.

"Only once a month," he retorted, lighting the fag with the candle in front of him.

He ignored the look Snape flashed as he inhaled deeply, savouring the effect of the opium as it drew into his lungs.

"I don't expect Dumbledore would be pleased if he learns what you've been doing since your resignation," drawled Snape. "You _must_ be of _some_ use to him."

"I wouldn't imagine that he _would_ take pleasure in my unlucky state but I'm certain he would understand that I need this because the pain is so great. Besides, Dumbledore couldn't babysit me even if I _was_ still there. I _had_ to leave. You were only looking after the well-being of the children when you reported me. I agreed and complied with your actions. In the chaos of that night I neglected to take my potion. I am only human, however debatable the Werewolf Registry considers that. If I hadn't resigned and it happened again I don't want to imagine the consequences that might have come about, not to mention I'd never be able to live with myself if someone was bitten."

He extended the opium cigarette to Snape who frowned upon the gesture as if he didn't wish to touch something used by a werewolf. Lupin shrugged and retracted. More for him.

"When I first added the opium to your Wolfsbane Potion I was attempting to alleviate your pain. I did not intend for you to grow dependent upon it."

"You are seeing to my best interests, I know. This _is_ to alleviate my pain; I assure you it is _not_ a dependency."

"You are intelligent enough to not only be aware of your own limitations but to identify the warning signs of addiction. Needing this every few days is unhealthy. Being a werewolf, you are already a liability to us."

"I will be fine, Severus, stop worrying. I will do nothing more to put any one at risk. That is why I left."

"Did you ever think that returning to this purlieu you favour so much does not help?"

"What are you saying?"

"Leave here tonight and do not return. Leave London entirely, for that matter; it only worsens your circumstances."

"Where do you suggest I go? Shall I return to the Devon moors where I was bitten? Will it be better to recollect the strain I placed upon my parents: my mother who wept for me every night and my father who loved me but once beat me while in a drunken rage brought on by the fact that his only child became the very monster he hunted and destroyed in Rumania? Perhaps I will return to the myriad places we relocated to, where every friend I had turned against and abused me, bruised my flesh and broke my bones? I have it! Why not Scotland? Hogwarts, specifically, where I can eventually murder a child because my increasingly dimmed mind cannot recall whether or not I've taken my potion!"

"There is no need to grow agitated, Lupin. You can drown yourself in the ocean for all I care. Your mind is unclear because this poisonous substance clouds your judgement. It is a side effect of opium. With all of your rambling about responsibility you should take the initiative and check into a rehabilitation unit at St. Mungo's. Instead, you prefer to live out your abysmal existence wandering the street doing the gods know what for money, food and shelter. Where _have_ you been sleeping, Lupin? You look like shit."

Lupin smiled gently while the opium worked to dull the gnawing inside him. He took another drag on the cigarette before he spoke.

"Why, Severus, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. I worry that you will be a liability. We cannot..."

Lupin waved a hand in dismissal. "Have no fear, I will _not_ be a liability. If I am then I shall remove myself from those I care about."

A long pause ensued and Lupin felt Snape's cold eyes inspect him.

"Have you eaten?" the Potions Master questioned. "Or slept? Don't reply with self-effacing comments, tell the truth."

Lupin gazed at Snape with surprise that softened into warmth, a sign of himself resurfacing.

"No," he answered. "I haven't eaten or slept in a few days."

To Lupin's dismay, Snape flagged over the serving wench and ordered a plate of food. The werewolf grumbled and rolled his eyes. He did not want Snape to mollycoddle him and was upset that the Slytherin would make such a gesture. But Lupin kept silent and continued smoking the opium.

"Your fallacious behaviour won't go undetected for long, Lupin," imparted Snape. "You are unravelling at the seams so that you resemble the tatty rags you wear. You're a horrid mess, an abomination of a man who looks like the very thing he complains others view him as. You want to be treated like a human, then stop living like a beast. You are everything they say you are and you may have Dumbledore blinded by your wolven wiles but I see through you, Lupin. The accolades Dumbledore flourishes upon you are empty when you repeatedly prove the Ministry correct regarding your kind. You are a disgrace to life and a danger to everyone, yourself included. You prefer opium over food and shelter. What will you do, I wonder, should I refuse to supply your precious drug? What price will you pay? Filthy, disgusting _cur_. You should be put out of your misery."

Lupin met Snape's abusive diatribe with the disarming serenity he was renowned for. It got Snape's goat every time.

"In spite of other pressing matters at hand, my lycanthropy rather than my so-called opium dependency is the biggest issue I must contend with. In either world I am always a werewolf first, if not to the Muggles then to myself because it's something I cannot escape. Opium is a necessary evil because it allays my hurt. It's no secret you find me repugnant, Severus, which is why I find your generosity admirable."

"Make no mistake regarding my motives, Lupin." The invective comment was ignored again.

"Yet you continue to provide me with what I need. I believe, in spite of your justifiable prejudice toward werewolves, you have _some_ concern for me or you would not be here."

The rivals grew quiet as Lupin's maudlin demeanour was heightened by the absinthe/opium combination. It was evident he'd had too much when he found himself looking beyond Snape's greasy hair, sallow pallor and scent of the musty dungeon where he was confined on a daily basis. Sirius and James belittled Snape about everything, particularly the aquiline nose adorning the Potions Master with a haughty refinement, especially while angry, but Lupin was fascinated with him.

"You besotted fool," scolded Snape. "I recommend that you admit yourself to St. Mungo's immediately."

Lupin's meal was placed before him, detracting his attention from Snape's scowl. Finishing his fag, the werewolf tucked in without further hesitation. They fell silent once more as Lupin ate greedily, all gentility forsaken by the werewolf's voracious appetite. To no surprise, the meal was eaten within minutes of its arrival.

"Finished _wolfing_ everything down?" Snape, never one to miss an opportunity, chivvied snidely.

Lupin belched softly into his palm, blushed with humility then thanked his companion who gave no recognition.

"You'll get indigestion behaving like an animal," Snape lectured with an emphasis on the last word. "What will you do now?"

Lupin sighed.

"You are correct, Severus, I'm no commodity to this impending war, only a hindrance that will worsen matters. Perhaps I will leave the Wizarding world and make my way among the Muggles. It might be best."

He tried to ignore the calculated smirk on Snape's face for it all too well reiterated the words _I told you so_. Snape never concealled his contempt for the beast who nearly killed him and that hate was always taken out on the diminutive boy who became that beast once a month. Nor did time relinquish that abhorrence in adulthood and Lupin knew that the buffer between them always was Albus Dumbledore.

"What of _them_?" taunted Snape. "There is no remedy for your disease and the susceptible Muggles won't survive the first transformation."

"I won't infect any one. If I place myself in complete seclusion during the full moon every one shall be safe."

"You won't have the Wolfsbane Potion. Do you think it wise for the uncontrollable, infectious wolf to wander amongst the unprotected lambs?"

"I've lived among them before and no-one was killed."

"Nevertheless, I have a solution, should you wish to eliminate the problem altogether, Number 21607."

Lupin stiffened at Snape's recital of his Registry number, the very number embossed on the dog tags hanging around his neck. Mention of it was Snape's reminder to him of a reality he wanted desperately to forget.

"What sort of...solution?"

Lupin's throat tightened and he didn't like the sound of his voice as it squeaked out. Those dog tags felt like an anchor weighing him down to his grave and the clinking they made as he leaned over to accept the second plain-wrapped package Snape handed him sounded like a threnody at his own funeral.

Out on the street once more, Lupin cradled the box Snape had passed to him only moments ago. Still at the Dragon's Breath and seconds after sending Snape off with precatory wishes of well-being, the werewolf peeked inside that box, discovering the awful and suggestive cold, gleaming steel within.

The Potions Master was correct; the opium rendered Lupin maladroit. His capacity to think waned and although he was skilful in the simple magic used on the Covent Garden sidewalk, he knew that too was lessening. As much as it saved him, the opium was killing him quicker than the lycanthropy, which brought about the tragic paradox.

In days of old opium was used to "cure" advanced lycanthropy; now it was the bane of many an addicted werewolves' existence. The anodyne relief the drug offered _was_ a necessary evil and, like Adam, most suppliers was willing to work with them to obtain it. With no cure for his disease all he could do was numb the pain. There were few things in existence that palliated the violent, capricious symptoms of lycanthropy. One was the Wolfsbane Potion which, due to the high price set by the Ministry, he could not afford. This forced him to resort to opium, the secondary means to cope with the infection.

Lupin's intense lucubration of Defence Against the Dark Arts had always been an effort to learn more about his condition, to defeat the beast that tore at his insides every month and to help prevent the infection of others. As a child and a young man, he nursed faith that top Medi-wizards and Potions Masters worked diligently on a cure and that by the time he reached the age he was now he would be healled. Time wore on and nobody seemed to care what circumstances a werewolf lived under, making it seem hopeless that he would be normal again. Werewolves were wrecked with despair for being cast off as not worth the time and effort. Feral werewolves who lived outside of Wizarding society didn't mind and further indulged in their unruliness out of spite. Tension mounted and those who wanted their humanity recognised decried that they grew weary of the neglect they suffered.

Then Damocles Belby became an angel of mercy by introducing his Wolfsbane Potion and the werewolf community took a breath of fresh air. That was untill Ministry bureaucrats purchased the rights to the potion and raised prices, making it impossible for impoverished werewolves to buy. Creating more problems, the RCMC, in all of its stringent self-righteous glory, required any one making the potion to obtain a licence so all activity could be closely monitored in case there were unregistered werewolves attempting to remain undetected. The proverbial dog-catchers brought their trammels down on the werewolves once more, dashing their hopes for any optimistic relief.

Lupin was thankfull for Snape's discretion while secretly making the potion during his employment at Hogwarts. He detested the Ministry knowing his personal affairs; if there was a way to keep their noses out of his business then he would find it. He refused to let them control him any more than they already did.

Much in his life was out of his control. Birth gave him a familial legacy to hunt monsters in Rumania. His parents sojourned on an exodus to escape Fenrir Greyback's wrath but the beast with a lust for child-flesh stalked them to Devon and got what he wanted any way. He couldn't control the mistreatment he received from government or society, or that he had to check in with the Werewolf Registry every month to answer ridiculous and personal questions, or that he was forced to wear those goddamned dog tags around his neck. There was no control over the job situation: risk telling an employer beforehand and not get the job at all or risk not telling and being discharged later because he was either too sick to show up after a full moon or have the boss discover things himself and sack him any way, only to then face Ministry reprimand. He couldn't control the fate of his cherished friends lost to war. No control over the hunger that struck him or the weather that pelted him. There was definitely no control over the wolf lurking inside him so close to the surface, ready to rip him to shreds and perform other unspeakable acts.

By giving him this box, Snape returned to him a fraction of that lost control. The contents inside gave him a protesting voice, in spite of how appalling the notion was.

He slumped to the pavement, his back against the building he stopped alongside of then opened that box and looked inside, deep in thought. Should he take Snape up on his morbid offer? Inside, the gun with a single silver bullet gleamed temptingly not as a weapon of self-immolation but as a rude gesture to the Werewolf Registry.


	4. Canto 2: Chapter 5

**Canto Two: The Plain of Burning Sand  
Section 1**

"About his lips, the gather'd foam he churns,  
And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns,  
But on the bleating Flock, his fury turns.  
His Mantle, now his Hide, with rugged hairs  
Cleaves to his back, a famish'd face he bears.  
His arms descend, his shoulders sink away,  
To multiply his legs for chase of Prey.  
He grows a Wolf, his hoariness remains,  
And the same rage in the other Members reigns.  
His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space;  
His jaws retain the grin, and violence of face."

--"Metamorphoses"  
Ovid

**Chapter 5**

"It is ironic that current Wizarding society forces werewolves to live as savages or paupers because the first werewolf had been a king," Julien Charlebois informed the small classroom of lycanthropic children who clung to his every word. "His name was Lycaon and his father Pelasgus was the first man to settle on the island of Arcadia, thus becoming a tale of creation for future islanders. Being that his direct parentage was to Mother Earth, the Arcadians elevated Pelasgus to demi-god status.

"Lycaon was a proud man full of conceit and took full advantage of the demi-god status he shared with his father. He built the namesake city of Lycosura on Mt Lycaeus to establish his longing for power and eternal recognition. He had the bold audacity to tax a derisive version of his own name as a surname to Zeus. The god was then forward known as Lycaean Zeus. However, Lycaon's most notorious accomplishment not only angered the great Zeus but damned us werewolves in the eyes of the world. The king desired to prove to Zeus that the god was not superior to him. He invited Zeus to a banquet where the flesh of a human infant was served in defiance."

This information elicited gasps from a handfull of the younger pupils as it always did for each new class and Charlebois felt guilty for it, as _he_ always did. Nevertheless, they needed to discover the provenience of what was their werewolf inheritance.

"Unwittingly, Zeus consumed some of the babe's flesh. Furious when the insidious deed was reveilled to him, Zeus punished Lycaon for his behaviour by transforming him and his sons into ravening wolves for a nine year period. Gracious god that Zeus was, he gave Lycaon an opportunity to reverse his wolven form: they would turn human once more after those nine years if they abstained form tasting human flesh within that time.

"This curse of lycanthropy was inherited by Lycaon's sons through each generation and not all of them met the requirement to revert back into human form. These wayward sons of Lycaon evolved into the werewolves of today. Mt Lycaeus is now known as Diaphorti or Mt St Elias. This location has become a summit of mystery and fear, for any one foolish enough to dare enter the precinct of Lycaean Zeus shall perish within a year. It is also said that shadows cannot be cast inside the parametres of this hallowed ground.

"Yet while the Wizarding world condemns us, this part of the Muggle world worships us. A cult of Lycaon exists to this very day, a Muggle-based group who believes Lycaon to be a dark extension of Zeus himself. This group of devout followers makes human sacrificial tributes to Lycaon, supposedly transforming into wolves themselves, and the officiating priest wears a wolf skin during the ritual."

A boy of nine years of age sitting near the front of class sheepishly raised his hand. Charlebois recognised the boy as Aaron Talbot, a pup brought back after the last full moon by the Seek and Vindicate Expedition (S.A.V.E.) Rescue Faction when they did their post-full moon routine comb of the forest for the newly bitten, particularly children left by ignorant parents. This class was held for all new pups just before they received their insignias representing their new society. He nodded in the boy's direction and called his name in address.

"My daddy wouldn't let me touch my mummy after the doggie bit me," he said meekly. "I tried to hug her but he pushed me away. They ran into the house but they wouldn't let me in."

Charlebois' heart wrenched at the child's anecdote. It was his duty as Alpha to protect the new pups. No-one would bother with them if he didn't enfold them in his protective embrace. He stooped down to Aaron's eye level then placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"You no longer need to worry, Aaron. Your place is with us now and you will _never_ be locked out of your home again."

He nodded his guarantee to the boy who gave him a slight smile. Charlebois rose to his full height then offered the same paternal consolation to the others.

"I assure you, children," he began, "I tell you these stories about Lycaon because it is important that you understand them. Now that you are all werewolves, it is imperative that you learn your new history and know the truth of what you've become. Most of everything you know is false: fairy tales or exaggerated lies.

"For example: your lives did not end the instant you were bitten. Instead, you stumbled upon a miraculous rebirth. Your lycanthropy may beleaguer you at times but you must look beyond the lies you've been told. Look at your lycanthropy not as a curse but as a gift. Just as the world now views you in a new light, you too view _it_ in a different light. All of us deserve better treatment than what we receive. Never forget that." He offered them another warm smile before his eyes caught Constantin Korzha at the rear of the room. Then he told the class: "You are dismissed."

Chairs scuffled against the floor and muttered conversations buzzed the room as the children left to rejoin their foster parents throughout the village. As they exited, Charlebois sat upon the battered teacher's desk and awaited Korzha's approach as the other werewolf made his way through the throng of orphans.

"Touching lesson," the Rumanian remarked smartly.

"Someone must teach the new pups that they are not the nemeses of society," Charlebois told. "Nascence of lycanthropy and of werewolves as a people must be corrected first at home before it has hope of correction elsewhere."

"And you believe these _tabula_ _rasa_ whelps will be the start of a new revolution?"

"Unfortunately they are not pristine as you think. They've been tainted by society to believe the slander Ministry officials spew and must learn differently."

"These woebegone brats are worthless, Julien. _We_ are the present, not _them_. Your attentions should be focused on _us_ and _our_ work in the here and now. Leave the whelps on the back burner untill _we_ are in control."

"You ask me to turn my back to the future? I think not, Constantin. The children are our future, they must be taught right for they will carry over the work of the present."

Korzha's smarmy expression made Charlebois want to strike him as much as Korzha desired to hit Wedgewood. With each passing day Korzha encroached into Charlebois' Alpha-Male position and though Julien was a thirty-nine-year-old man, his years as a wolf were long in the tooth. He would be unable to defend his rule for much longer, something he feared immensely.

Once Korzha gained Alpha-Male status he would undoubtedly become a despot to the village and subsequently to the Wizarding world. His impolitic antics would spoil the hard work Charlebois lived to accomplish and a hefty vengeance would be exacted upon those who crossed him. There would be hell to pay with Constantin Korzha's fanged tyranny and Charlebois, who would be the first to go, would eventually be powerless to prevent it.

"_Your_ way is _not_ the _right_ way, Julien," the young werewolf snarled. "_Your_ way will make us obsequious lap dogs for the Ministry."

"And what do _you_ propose we do, Constantin?" Charlebois riposted, calm in the face of the adversity.

"Vorbeşti căcat, Julien! Words are _meaningless_ to those people! They only know action and unrest. The rubric of their society must be felled by force, not reason. Return their injustice with violence to teach them we cannot be bullied. Thick as they are it will take a while for them to understand this but once we acquire enough strength we will decimate them from the inside out."

"How do you expect to put these plans into action, my friend?"

"As I said: from the inside out. It would be difficult for them to hoise their wicked pride on the flag pole of hypocrisy."

Korzha's implication began to dawn onto a horrified Julien.

"Surely you don't mean…"

"Will a Ministry official issue laws against a community of people he himself belongs to?" Korzha clarified brusquely. "Put them in _our_ place and see if they will be so eager to oppress."

Charlebois was aghast at the notion.

"You cannot mean this, Constantin. Violence without predication is a separate matter but infecting Ministry officials with lycanthropy is inexcusable and is a behaviour I cannot endorse."

Korzha gave his Alpha a facetious smile as he edged closer like he was about to tell his greatest secret.

"Your time is short, _old_ wolf. Your reign is on its last grains of sand in the hourglass; I already smell the decay of your power and the very flesh on your decrepit bones. You cannot hold me back forever, Julien. A newer, stronger breed of wolf is poised for power. In the moment of its arrival I will be there to finish you off."

With a snarl, Korzha left Charlebois behind with the needle of dissent pricking deep in his arm.

It was late Friday afternoon and Covent Garden was so jam-packed that Lupin nearly missed the comely brunette witch. She wasn't in her typical spot which was occupied by a large group of German tourists busy snapping photos of each other. He couldn't suppress a slight smile at a tourist's enthusiasm for what natives took for granted. Besides, if ignorance was bliss then Muggles were unwittingly in paradise.

The witch was in fact sitting closer to where he usually performed and he hesitated to go back to the spot. Around dinner time he ventured over to the nearest shop and purchased a few pieces of penny chocolate to distribute to the children; upon his return he help but to search for her, as he had been doing the entire morning. Not locating her, he couldn't help but be disappointed.

While performing his stunning feats of thaumaturgy, Lupin's eyes inadvertently fell upon her. Her angelic visage dazed him so that his eyes were as wide as a stag caught in lights. The bewitchment was broken only when the pebbles he was levitating rained down upon him, sending his juvenile audience into riots of laughter. Playing along to dismiss his error as comedy, he returned their glee then handed out the sweets in his pocket. He glanced over at his heart's desire who kept her pretty nose buried in the paperback accompanying her.

Shakespeare's Sonnets. Lupin recognised the cover as being one included with the detritus within the battered case resting at his feet. A connoisseur of fine literature himself, he frequently browsed the book shops of Charing Cross Road in Leicester Square where he purchased the very book. Her appreciation of The Bard was one thing more they had in common and was a possible ice breaker for him.

Shaking his head, he took a few steps in her direction but stopped, the courage he mustered the night previous vanquished by fresh doubt. His heart was as empty as his stomach and brimmed with hurt. A terrible resurgence that approaching her would be equivalent to strolling over a minefield secured his passivity. His accursed existence was tiresome. He longed to be a normal man free to do as he pleased!

His growling, hungry stomach disrupted his laments and he placed a discreet hand over his middle to quell its complaint. Having not eaten since the gifted meal at the Dragon's Breath, he was light-headed and decided to look for provisions to satisfy his hunger.

As he stepped back to reclaim his case, a tug on his coat sleeve drew his attention to a small flame-haired boy who couldn't have been more than seven. A warm smile spread across Lupin's full, weather-cracked lips.

"May I help you, kind sir?" he inquired gently.

"I want more chocolate," the boy bluntly responded.

"You do?" Without realizing what he was doing, Lupin leaned over untill he was eye level with the boy. The incriminating dog tags, which he secretively kept hidden in shame beneath his clothing, slipped from the unbuttoned top of his worn shirt and suspended in the space between them. "How many would you like?"

"I want four!"

"Four? Five would be better, don't you agree?"

The boy nodded.

"I will give you _five_ pieces if you can recite the multiplication table for the number five. Is that a deal?"

The boy nodded again then set to the task:

"Zero times five is zero…"

"Uh huh."

"One times five is five…"

"Go on."

"Two times five is ten…"

"Keep going."

"Three times five is fifteen…"

"Correct."

"Four times fi—"

"_RICHARD!!_"

A woman's shrill disciplinarian voice interrupted. Lupin stood to full height as he and the boy watched while the child's distraught mother, a witch with equally red hair and blazing violet eyes, eyes affixed palpably to the exposed dog tags dangling precariously from around his neck, stomped to her son's side. Lupin's heart sank to his stomach like a stone to the bottom of a pond.

"Get away from that wretched thing!" she scolded, humiliating Lupin with unwanted interim attention received from surrounding Muggles.

Lupin didn't look the red headed witch in the eye. His basest instinct reminded him that looking an enemy in the eye constituted challenge. He wanted no confrontation; he only wanted to be left in peace.

Grabbing her son's arm, the witch yanked him away and stood between Richard and the werewolf.

"Keep away from my son, you filthy mongrel!" she berated the submissive, quiet Lupin. "Don't you _dare_ go near him again! If you do, I shall report you and have you executed, you _mangy_ _wolf_!"

Lupin wanted to disappear and regretted choosing to earn a living in this manner for now it could possibly get him killed. It seemed he always foolishly pressed his luck with children. Why couldn't he just stay away as the Werewolf Code of Conduct demanded of him? He gulped and wished he was dead. He belonged on his knees performing unspeakable acts upon questionable men in Knockturn Alley, not performing magic for children in Covent Garden. In the cresting maelstrom Lupin became numb and dissociative.

_Leave me alone!_ he pleaded inside his head.

The witch whirled around upon Richard, warning: "Keep away from that disgusting animal!"

"He was going to give me chocolate!" whinged Richard.

"It's a _werewolf_, Richard, it would've poisoned you with its disease! _Never_ eat anything a werewolf gives you! Do you _want_ to become a werewolf?!"

As the woman dragged the protesting boy from the scene of contretemps she caused the demeaned werewolf, Lupin's eyes peered beyond the sibilant witnesses to the pretty witch, praying that she hadn't seen the degradation. His heart sank to his bowels from his stomach when he noticed her eyes upon him.

_Wonderfull_, he thought as he sidled to retrieve his case then stooped to pick it up. _Now_ _she_ knows _I'm_ _a_ _werewolf!_ _She's repulsed and wants nothing to do with me! Parting is such sweet sorrow; I shan't see thee on the morrow!_

After this debacle he knew he wouldn't stand a chance of earning any more money so he gathered what he had and bumped into someone as he started walking away.

"So sorry," he muttered quietly.

It was the pretty witch. He blanched and froze, feeling ill as his throat tightened and unsure of how to handle this.

_Brilliant! Just what I needed to cap off my day!_

Used to life's cruelties, he expected additional reprimand for having contact with the children but instead was given an effulgent smile that held a compassion of which he rarely was the recipient. A congenial bond formed between them when she clasped his large calloused hand with her delicate one and held it firmly. He felt this bond wrap around him like a shield from the curious, heated eyes of speculation. Self-consciously, he discreetly veilled the dog tags back inside his shirt, against the heart they newly stabbed like a dagger, to conceal them from her.

"You deserve better," she murmured in a tone, making him believe her.

For the first time since noticing each other, their eyes locked at point-blank range and a surging knot coagulating in his throat threatened to tell her everything. He nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed by her kindness.

"You don't look well," she assayed. "Your movements suggest your body aches, that your joints are stiff."

"The cold does that to a person," he responded in his hoarse voice.

He found he could not look in this woman's eyes any more than he could look in the red headed witch's eyes in spite of the fact that she posed no threat to him…at least not as much as he perceived.

"It's more than that," she stated. "You're hurting so much you can hardly move."

He shifted his weight nervously then bitterly smiled.

"I'm practising to be a contortionist," he responded wryly.

"Funny. I reckoned you were a werewolf."

Lupin's skin felt like ill-fitting clothes on a too-tall frame. So she _was_ going to punish him for his violation or take the flame-haired witch's side.

She pressed something against the palm of his hand which he instinctively closed his fingers around. When he gazed into her forget-me-not eyes he discovered mercy abound. Distracting himself from the discomfort of a kindness he was unaccustomed to, he toyed with his belongings as a gust of cold wind blew the muffler from around his neck. He watched in dismay as it tumbled in its escape, thinking _Oh well, it needed a washing any way_.

Then he felt new warmth encompass him and realised that she had taken her muffler from around her own neck and was wrapping it around his.

"Call me sometime soon," she softly urged. "I can help and am a good friend to have."

With that, she released his hand and he watched as she disappeared into the dense crowd of bewildered tourists. Only when he could no longer see her did he peek into his hand. It was a business card. A small white card he'd crumpled in taking. Printed on its face in a clear, concise font was:

EVANGELINE REDGRAVE  
WEREWOLF RIGHTS ADVOCATE  
WEREWOLF SUPPORT SERVICES  
DRCMC

Lupin attempted to blink the disbelief from his eyes. Her offered solatium compensating for his emotional injury was too good to be true. She wasn't a _spy_ trying to vex him with a falsehood as he originally suspected! She was a _saviour_ who cared about him!

Evangeline! An angel befitting of her name!

Feeling marginally better, he tucked the card away inside his pocket for safe keeping and fond memories, doubting that he would ever see her again. Gathering his possession along with remnants of his dignity, he left his area at the portico of St Paul's to venture through the tourists and performers of various sorts, heading toward his favourite section of London: Leicester Square.

He needed the walk, he reasoned, to work off the frustrations of wizarding ignorance. He was a mixture of rage and bleakness and thought that visiting the bookshops would help calm him. Soho teemed with its usual youthfull activity and Lupin found his renowned patience tried. It was a struggle for him to pass through the crowds, wishing just this once that the Muggles knew what he was beneath his skin so they could make way for him in fear.

The walk to Leicester Square was brief but Lupin was importuned by aching muscles, taut joints and laboured, congested breathing. He felt less like a thirty-three year old and more like an elderly cripple with every hobbled step he took. His raspy breathing alone signalled a need for another opium fix accompanied with the arthritic creak of his joints. Yes, he felt ancient and depleted of physical energy, a man who only wanted to curl up in a warm bed to sleep.

But for Lupin there was no warm bed he could use as a safety net to help him through the day. All he had were these cold, busy streets, false hope from a worthless business card in his pocket and an agony that gnawed at him like a rat. Classic bastard rat behaviour. It was the rat's fault for all of his pain; the rodent was responsible for everything and Lupin's one wish was to be in a locked room with the rat on a full moon night. It would be the only time he would express gratitude for the moon's power over him.

His wandering mind left the tirade it was on long enough to discover that he was on Charing Cross Road. Standing on the corner, he gazed down the bustling street, contemplating going into the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. It was conceivable that Tom could be convinced to grant him a warm bed for the night. He decided to weigh that option and come back to it later.

For now, back to the book shops. Large booksellers like Borders and Foyles were too costly for him so he opted for the second hand shops scattered about the street. Here nestled in the dusty rooms crammed with books from floor to ceiling was where he was happiest, second only to standing before class giving lecture. Robbed of one comforting environment, here he found himself in another.

The stale, musty scent of the yellowed printed page eased his troubled mind, his problems absorbed on the dog-eared plains embossed with ink. He loitered in an aisle, perusing every genre from romance to reference, envying the simple lives of lexicographers and the dramatic acts of poets. He frequently entertained the idea of penning his own work, combining his dual passions of books and teaching by writing a Defence Against the Dark Arts text. Who better to write one than a dark creature such as himself?

But who would publish a werewolf's work? Granted, it was an ideal opportunity for a werewolf to acquire gainfull employment since there was no routine days that would be missed due to full moons and in-person meetings with a publisher could be scheduled around that or be nonexistent altogether if an agent was involved. That did not mean he couldn't be discriminately rejected, however. Prejudice would still loom because he would need to report his income to the Ministry and inform the publisher that he was a werewolf making conflict expected.

He bought a select few tatty paperbacks, one for each of the five booksellers he visited on Charing Cross Road and the pedestrianised Cecil Court before exiting the world of endeared classics and pulp fictioneers alike to venture through crowds of others milling about and found himself at the Earlham Street Market. Here was where he went on an ardent sartorial hunt for decent second hand clothing to purchase with the remainder of his meagre wages.

It was no easy task sleuthing through the piles of worn, mismatched articles of clothing for something decent enough to keep him warm during the winter. Everything was faded to sickly colours that nobody liked to wear: browns turning to tans, blacks to greys, things that were once white, myriads of vomit-inducing greens, and the ugliest of plaids. Some things were thin, some were holey and ripped, and others were stretched out. Most of everything was too kitschy even for a despicable werewolf with no other options. Understanding that his entire life was second hand, he managed to find a few piebald jumpers and suit jackets that would be utile in providing warmth, three pairs of socks that were still thick although one had a hole in its toe, just as many pants and trousers to finish off his earnings.

In wearing these purchases, he would give the air of a vagrant. It would have to do untill he was able to find other paid work. After the debacle in Covent Garden he could not return to the scene of his humiliation. Usually he could solicit himself as a tutor servicing his students inside their own homes or use his DADA acumen to banish all sorts of pests such as garden gnomes, doxies, and boggarts from households willing to pay him. But this meant he would show up on the doorstep, begging for work of any kind while he tried to maintain _some_ decorum.

It felt impossible to possess dignity after potential employers saw his state of dress. He was tired of looking like a rag doll crudely sewn from a motley handfull of scraps. This, he knew, had others quickly draw the right but condemning conclusion that he was a werewolf. Furthermore, he was a werewolf with a jejune addiction to opium that presently tormented him with shortness of breath, a dull ache of his body and lingering nausea accompanied with the sweaty chills of a high fever.

He needed an opium fix to erase the symptoms and he needed it now. He needed opium like he needed food, water….oxygen. Traipsing through citizens and tourists, he searched for a secluded place where he could smoke some of the opium Snape gave. His only reprieve was a random dirty alley which induced memories he'd rather forget.

Sitting on the pavement with his back against the brick wall, he reached into his inner coat pocket and found his deliverance. Slowly the pain and nausea ebbed away and he wiped at his brow to remove the perspiration.

Everything was going to be fine. Everything was good now.

Lupin's body began to be relieved from pain and the werewolf felt himself slip into a euphoric abulia. Drawing his case beneath his legs in an instinctive gesture to protect what he owned, he gazed around in a walleyed state and judged that he would be safe enough to rest a while. Pulling the collar of his coat and Evangeline's donated muffler up, he nestled in the woolly warmth with Evangeline's essence. Lilac, to be precise.

Amid these miniscule comforts, Lupin smiled warmly then slipped into a fitfull sleep.


	5. Canto 2: Chapter 6

"WEREWOLF, n.: A wolf that once, or is sometimes, a man. All werewolves are of evil disposition, having assumed a bestial form to gratify a bestial appetite, but some, transformed by sorcery, are as humane and is consistent with an acquired taste for human flesh."

--Ambrose Bierce

**Chapter 6**

It was late Friday night and Caden Rhys Phellan pined to sneak out and meet his best mates Tristan and Scott like he did every weekend since falling into the care of his Uncle Gabriel. The boys' meeting place and customary hang-out was the Pergola in Hampstead Heath. It was quiet, secluded and eerie: an ideal location for three adolescent boys of thirteen to smoke cigarettes and plot affliction.

Caden wasn't a bad boy. Not really. He just liked to pretend he was. A typical troublemaker, he was mischievous but not malicious, angst-ridden but not mean. He and his younger sister Caileigh were left in the care of Uncle Gabriel, a kind but hard-nosed reverend for St John's on nearby Church Row, after they were orphaned at the ages eight and ten months, respectively. The absence of his biological parents, everyone would concur, was the reason behind his unruly behaviour. The role of parental disciplinarian undertaken by Uncle Gabe was not the same thing.

As seen through Caden's eyes, Uncle Gabe was not a dreadfull person but merely misguided. Both a religious leader and what their wizard father termed a Muggle, Uncle Gabe believed magic was morally wicked, blaming it for the death of his cherished sister and was hell-bent to ban his magically inclined nephew and niece from their birthright. Caileigh was too young to understand this but Caden remembered very well what he truly was and forced to deny.

Hence, his rebellion. Old enough to be gratefull for the things Uncle Gabe supplied but young enough to be wayward, he was an archetypal teen wanting to do the opposite of what he was told…just because.

Caden fastened his most precious possession around his neck: a black thong with a silver-encased wolf fang hanging at its centre. The Phellan family hailled from Ireland, the Island of Wolves, where werewolves ran rampant. The necklace was given as a birthday gift the week before the ill-fated camping trip that proved so pivotal in his and Caileigh's lives. It was meant to be a keepsake of his Gaelic heritage and ended up being something of a much greater value.

_Damned animals!_ thought Caden with a scowl.

It was a werewolf that robbed him of his parents and it was determined that Caden's wolf-fang talisman was the siblings' life-saving element that tragic night.

Caden raked his fingers through his long black hair, brushing it from his face. Posing in the full length mirror on the bedroom wall, he admired the way his bum looked in the tight jeans he managed to wiggle into. A thirteen-year-old with hormones conducive with erratic behaviours, his appearance was his most important asset. He struck another pose, flexing his wiry arms to expose hardened biceps before pulling on a T-shirt.

He looked smashing, he evaluated, slipping on his leather jacket. He knew he would freeze but at least he'd make an attractive corpse. He vaingloriously fussed with his hair and clothing a few seconds longer before abruptly stopping at the _slap!_ of footsteps on the bare floor just outside his room.

Shit! Uncle Gabe! And Caden should've been in bed already asleep at such a late hour!

Complaining under his breath about the misfortune, the roguish boy forsakened his preening to rush to the unmade bed into the coolled blankets he burrowed beneath and feigned a sound repose, complete with a gentle snore. Caden didn't know whether or not he snored but he believed it a nice touch. He was _such_ a good actor.

_Crrrrreeeeeeakkkkkkk!_

The door came ajar; Caden snuggled deeper into his duvet and goose feather pillow. Someone entered the room with a soft _slap!_ of bare feet over the floor and Caden tensed, poised to hear Uncle Gabe mutter a belated good night during a routine check. Instead…

"Caden?"

The soft, tiny voice belonged to Caileigh rather than Uncle Gabe. Caden's eyes popped open to view his five-year-old sister standing beside the bed, peering down upon him with her large, blue dewy eyes. Her long golden hair fell over her shoulder and glistened like gossamer in the incoming moonlight. In the white gown she wore she resembled an angel.

"Caileigh?" the big brother addressed. "What's the matter?"

"I can't sleep," she informed. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"The monster in my closet. I heard it move."

Caden sighed with the put-upon frustration of an elder sibling. For _this_ he mussed his hair?

"There's _no_ monster in your closet, Caileigh."

"There is too! I can _hear_ it!"

"It's just a mouse, go back to sleep."

"I _can't_, Caden, it will _get_ me! Budge over! I want to sleep with you!"

"No! Go back to your _own_ room! There is _no_ monster!"

"But I'm _scared_!"

Considering that further protest would bring Uncle Gabe to the room, Caden huffed in exasperation.

"_Fine!_"

Not hiding his displeasure for her request, he raised the bedclothes and scooted over. With the utmost immediacy of a frightened child, Caileigh joined him.

"Hey!" she squealled in her little girl's voice. "You still have your clothes on! You were going out!"

"_Shhh!_ You _know_ I go out for a bit when you and Uncle Gabe sleep."

"You'll get hurt one night, Caden."

"I won't get hurt. I've gone out before and I'm fine."

"But…"

"Haven't been hurt yet. Not a scratch. And you can't tell Uncle Gabe."

"But…"

"I mean it, Caileigh. Swear on mum and dad's souls."

"But…"

"_Swear_ it, Caileigh."

"Give me your afters for a month."

"_A month?!_ A week."

"_Two_ weeks."

"All right, then. _Two_ weeks. But you _can't_ tell."

"I swear."

"You swear what?"

"Not to tell."

"Not to tell what?"

"Not to tell Uncle Gabe that you go out when we sleep."

"Good girl, Caileigh. I love you."

"I love you, too." A pause, then: "Caden?"

"Yeah?"

"You won't go out _tonight_, will you? You'll stay with me?"

Caden exhaled his helplessness.

"Yeah, I'll stay with you."

"Thanks, Caden."

"You're welcome."

"What if the monster comes in here?"

"I told you, Cale—" He stopped short and sighed then used a different approach. "If the monster comes in here then I'll kill it."

"But what if it gets _you_ first?"

"It won't. It can't."

"Why not?"

Caden rolled his eyes, stuck untill he remembered the wolf fang talisman around his neck. "Because of my necklace," he explained. "You know, the one that saved us from the werewolf that killed mum and dad."

"How can a _necklace_ save you?" she asked sceptically.

"Because it's _silver_ and werewolves are _afraid_ of silver."

"Oh."

"Now stop asking questions and go to sleep."

"OK. Good night. I love you."

"Love you, too."

Caileigh nestled against her older brother and seemed to fall directly into dreamland.

"Is fheàrr teicheadh math na droch fhuireach," acquiesced the boy softly.

Caden relinquished his upset and followed into sleep, foilled for the night.

Lupin jolted from sleep in a violent shiver three hours later to the abrupt wail of police sirens. Evangeline's muffler hung loosely down one side of his neck, exposing the other side to the cold. Disoriented, he sat up and blinked sleep from his eyes, wondering where he was. Oh, yes. An alley somewhere in SoHo. Still mellowed and somewhat numbed by the opium, he knew he needed to at least get off the street and find a reasonable shelter where he could better keep warm. Squinting in the light of the lamp post, he noticed a small form on the ground staring at him. There was the sound of ruffled feathers and he recognised it as an owl.

It twittered a greeting to him and he reached out to untie the bit of parchment from around its leg. Immediately the bird pecked at his hand and he groaned, regretting that he still had nothing to offer Sirius' messenger. Feeling useless remorse, he waved the animal away with a swipe of his hand. In defiance, the owl flapped its wings as it backed off, still pecking at the offensive hand prior to taking flight in a fury of dust and feathers.

_I don't want to deal with you _now_, Pads_, Lupin thought as he tucked the parchment, tied with a black ribbon that the werewolf was curious as to how his friend managed to obtain, into his coat pocket for later.

Many years ago the young Sirius Black had been a soul mate of sorts to the shunned werewolf despite the tremendous disparity between them. Opposites magnetised them into an inseparable bond of loyal friendship. Black was similar to the little werewolf with his playfull nature but opposite in many more ways: he came from a prominent pureblood family while Lupin was from a modest lot even before his parents came into poverty. Black was a devil-may-care ruffian, outspoken and admired by all. Lupin was the quiet wallflower who was seldom noticed. Black was athletic and outgoing but Lupin was scrawny and withdrawn.

It was a drastic time back then, with so many of their friends fresh out of school and being picked off faster than flies in a cluster of Venus-flytraps. Everyone needed and sought affection wherever they could get it. Lupin, Black, James and Peter clung to each other with ferocity, escaping wartime tension with pranks.

But their love for each other was a fragile vase in the midst of a demolition: it held strong but always teetered on the edge of falling apart. War robbed them of everyone they loved and there seemed to be few if any future prospects. Black allowed him to move into the flat he acquired with the inheritance his Uncle Alphard gave him because the destitute werewolf was unable to pay rent for the crappy matchbox room he lived in. It was during this time when the two friends formed a bond both fiery and undefinable. Without doubt they would die for each other which was what made their mutual mistrust for each other tragic and what made their reunion so bittersweet.

Now in the face of a new war they found themselves trying to rekindle that affectionate need but too much damage had been done in their heartache. Time had torn a new rift between them that was nearly as bad as the initial suspicion and nothing they did seemed to repair the damage. He knew Sirius wanted to fix things as badly as he did but it just seemed impossible.

Carefully rising from the ground, he winced as his stiff joints cracked. He stretched to relieve the ache, secured the muffler better about his neck then reached down to claim his belongings. That was when his eyes fell upon, of all things, a _Daily Prophet_ with blaring headlines:

**DMRC TO REVIEW WEREWOLF RIGHTS:  
Stricter Laws Proposed**

He pondered on who the former owner of the discarded paper might have been. Perhaps another vagabond werewolf attempting to keep updated on his kind's future fate. Detesting that whoever it was carelessly tossed it on the Muggle streets rather than dispose of it in a responsible manner, he picked it up, folded it and stuck it inside the bag of second-hand clothing for later reading.

He then took a few stumbling steps reminiscent of a newborn fawn taking its first steps before he was able to correct his gait and walk normally. The first abandoned building he came across would be his sanctuary where he would properly warm himself. He still had his wand and was going to make use of his magic as soon as he was removed from sight.

It took him fifteen minutes to find an empty shop that, with a quiet "_Alohomora!_", he entered without incident. Gratefull for a surrounding structure to protect him from the elements, Lupin made himself at home in the last room at the back of the shop which he imagined to be an old storage area as it was cluttered with boxes filled with assorted books and supplies.

He rummaged through these boxes to gather an armfull of books which he piled on the floor. As much as he loathed doing it, he cast a quick "_Indendio!_" on the pile which erupted into flames. Warmth, glorious warmth! He sank to the floor, relishing in the enveloping heat, and remained that way for several moments, his mind free of thought.

Dizzy from hunger and throat parched to the point where he wondered if he would be able to speak, he ran his hand through his untidy hair in effort to make it somewhat presentable. After nervously scanning the room for others, he cast an _Augamenti_ charm with his already hoarse voice then guzzled the fresh water that spouted from the tip of his wand, quenching his bothersome thirst. When he'd had enough, the spell ran out. Food was the next pressing need on his list.

The only thing he had was leftover penny chocolates in his coat pocket. In remembering them, he quickly took them out, unwrapped and ate them ravenously. Unabashedly, he hungrily licked the melted chocolate from the wrapper. Waste not, want not. But oh, what he wouldn't do for a bite of real food!

Finishing his childish meal, he wadded the wrappers into tiny balls and tossed them into the pile of ash and fire that had once been books. The old building was able to retain a surprising amount of cold. It would take forever for the room to heat sufficiently. Lupin detested the cold and never could seem to get warm enough. The weather had been unpredictable of late and he was tempted to pay Evangeline a visit for shelter, at least for a little while.

Right now his body ached and he wasn't certain if it was from the cold or opium withdrawal. Little tremors rippled through his body and his hands began to shake as if he a high much caffeine intake on an empty stomach. Little beads of sweat formed upon his brow, dampening his hairline. The pull in his veins signalled that he was soon due for another fix.

Then he remembered the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and considered reading what he knew would be a tendentious article. Did he honestly wish to put himself through such anguish tonight after making progress with finding shelter and making a fire? Perhaps it would be best to wait till morning so he could read it over breakfast. But he realised in disgruntlement that there would be no breakfast for him to eat.

Lighting the tip of his wand with a muttered _"Lumos!"_ he opted to skim the article for it was unlikely he would ever be in the position to change any one's politics however directly it affected him. His eyes scanned each sentence, tidbits here and there sticking in his mind but it was all the same thing: Wedgewood and Umbridge postulating that werewolves were "egregious cankers of society" and must have a leash put around them to protect everyone. He groaned, tired of hearing the Ministry's endless stream of werewolf bashing and was about to add the paper to the makeshift book crematorium when a name caught his eye.

Evangeline Redgrave.

_Evangeline_ _Redgrave?_ His _Evangeline Redgrave?_ Heart slamming into his ribcage, he read eagerly.

_Right_ _now the Ministry has a zero-sum relationship with werewolves_, Evangeline was quoted as saying. _We offer these people help by creating Werewolf Support Services and building safehavens to keep them off the streets. Then at the same time we take away the very benefits these services give. What I find ridiculous is safehavens are built to not merely provide shelter for werewolves but to segregate them from society because they are considered a potential danger. Too often safehavens are petitioned against and subject to protesters who pose more of a threat to the werewolves than the werewolves to do them. My safehavens have been the subject of illegal search and seizures by the Ministry as well as violence by groups of self-proclaimed vigilantes who do refuse to allow these zoomorphic people to lead a peacefull coexistence._

_Give them hell, Evangeline!_ Lupin cheered proudly inside his head. He continued on:

_My goal is to expose the hindrance our unforgiving society causes werewolves_, the article continued to report Evangeline's words. _They struggle to obtain jobs, jobs that are easily taken away from them by too many systematic loopholes. If they are lucky to secure employment they are paid such a low wage that they are barely able to buy food. The only fair employment opportunity they have is to find work among the Muggles. It's ridiculous. We can _not_ allow this outrage to continue. Something must be done and I will do my best to speak on behalf of all werewolves everywhere._

Lupin had read enough. Refolding the _Prophet_ in half, he placed it back with his other belongings and sighed deeply. So his Angel had been genuine in her cause. She was trying to help.

Poor Angel! he lamented. She was fighting a lost cause. He didn't belong in her world; he wasn't even welcome in it and that knowledge was what propelled him to take Snape's advice and leave London. He wasn't positive as to where he would go but he knew he needed to leave. He couldn't risk hurting this benevolent woman. It was obvious she was an advantage to other werewolves who were far more worthy of her assistance.

Deciding that he was harbouring far too much self-pity to his liking, Lupin curled up on the floor, his head propped up by the makeshift pillow that was his case and stared into the fire. Pleasant thoughts of his beautiful aficionado of the Bard ran through his head like a movie. They were Romeo and Juliet, he fantasised, trapped with a love in a disapproving world that served only to separate them. Rather than being nestled inside dirty clothing and a dusty coat before a crackling fire, he brought to life in his mind fresh linens and soft arms securing him to a warm body.

That was how he fell asleep.

A woman's scream startled him awake faster than the wails of police sirens from earlier. Heart in his tightened throat, he withdrew his wand faster than a gunslinger in the American Old West preparing for a shootout at high noon. He shook his shaggy, greying head to clear his thoughts and scrunched his eyes closed so he could press the sleep out of them. There were still dying embers in the burnt out fire, reduced to nothing much more than a smouldering pile of black ash beside him. As suspected, the room hadn't retained much of the heat and he shivered.

Whether or not he trembled because of temperature or due to the scream that awakened him he did not know. He listened intently for a second cry and heard nothing but a presiding stillness. He waited but still heard nothing more. Did he imagine it? Did a woman really scream? Tempted to check to make sure, he considered his own safety. If he walked out there and involved himself then he could get hurt. Yet if he didn't then someone else's life could be at stake.

It wouldn't be necessary for him to out-muscle or to outnumber because his wand would give him the advantage. He could Obliviate their minds to prevent them from remembering his magic if they were Muggles. But what about the risks of others catching him? What then?

But if he did not respond to this woman's need for help what would that say about his own integrity? Wouldn't that prove him to be a heartless monster and equally guilty of the crime at hand? He was no coward, but he realised his reaction time was impaired by the opium. The drug may have rendered him useless to lend any aid, magic or not.

He sighed, his body calming. It must've been a dream or an isolated incident because there was no second scream. If some poor woman was in distress then she should be screaming bloody murder still. Yes, that was it. A dream. His thoughts of Sirius before falling asleep influenced his dreams to reflect the residual agony he felt for being the hapless victim of Black's physical abuse. That incident would forever bother him.

Listening intently, he paused to hear another scream just to make sure, poised to spring into action should duty call again. There was nothing.

_Does opium make you hear things?_ he wondered before allowing his body to slump back against the wall. He knew some Muggle drugs made the user hallucinate and opium did cause confusion in those who made use of it. That was it. Opium induced confusion. Nightmares caused by Sirius' domestic violence. The scroll he recently received. It all added up.

As he felt himself slipping back into a contented sleep, there was a second scream somewhat louder than before. This one brought him to his feet.

Someone _was_ in danger! He had to do _something_!

Stumbling over the pyre of books before him, he nearly tripped as he raced from the room to get to the front of the shop. Although he could not see anything outside the window he knew the assault was taking place nearby. He rushed outside and looked around but still found nothing.

_Which way should I go?_ he thought frantically.

The question was answered by a muffled scream and the sound of a struggle. He headed in that direction and found himself in the alley next to the shop from which he came. A hulking male figure had a woman pinned against the dirty wall but the angle did not look right. Then Lupin realised that the assailant was lifting her up above him with one hand around her throat, effectively strangling her as she kicked and thrashed about to obtain freedom. Without help there was no possible way she was going to get free.

Before acting hastily in drawing his wand, Lupin took for granted that both woman and her attacker were Muggles and opted for the non-magical approach.

"Release her!" he demanded, hoping his hoarse voice carried enough weight to present him as a feasible threat.

The man paid no mind but continued on with his task. Lupin's interference gave the woman new hope as she fought harder. The werewolf saw her arm strike out and claw her enemy's face. He drew his head back to miss her fingernails but Lupin saw a gold glint wound between her fingers as she pulled something off the man's neck.

Lupin sprang into action. A wolf he may have been but he had the heart of a lion. Not sure what he would be able to do, he tried to pull the man from her but could not find the leverage to manage it. The woman's face was purplish and turning blue but the man only squeezed her throat tighter. She was dying; he needed to do something and quick!

Grabbing the man's offending hand, he attempted to pry it from around her neck but his vise grip held stronger. Lupin felt inept and he was not a weakling. This man was terrifyingly _powerfull_. Giving up the effort to break the attacker's hold, he wedged himself between the woman and her offender, pushing back against the man's wrist.

"Let her go, damn you!" he hissed between clenched teeth.

He strained against the brute, daring to look him in the eye to show he meant business. As soon as his eyes fell on the face of the assailant, Lupin's heart stopped dead in his chest. He saw a face clad with a black leather Mardi Gras mask similar to the ones worn in a masquerade ball in the shape of a wolf's face staring back at him. What did this mean? Was this a crime being committed to somehow blame werewolves?

The thought angered Lupin, inspiring him to push harder. Either from being strangled unconscious or because she saw he was trying to help, the woman stopped her own efforts and hung in the false wolf's grasp like a limp rag doll. Lupin noticed that the man's throat and chest were scratched and bleeding from where the woman tried to defend herself. Her lifeless body motivated him further.

Lupin brought his foot up swiftly, kicking the man in the groin then up further to his chest, finally shoving him off them. As the woman crashed to the ground, so did her attacker in a proclamation of agony. He lay doubled over and holding himself, groaning piteously. Not wanting to wait for him to get back up to do worse damage, Lupin began to withdraw his wand.

From the distance the sound of an approaching group of people reached his ears, making him remove his hand from the inside of his coat and leaving the wand secured in place. The attacker, too, heard the advance coming their way and wobbled to his feet, half doubled over. He lurched out of the alley as fast as he could and out of sight.

It was only then that Lupin focused his attention on the victim of the scuffle, now lying unconscious behind him. Calling out to rouse her, he gently shook her but she remained unresponsive. Her chest was no longer rising and falling so he checked the pulse in her neck.

Nothing. And she was already growing cold and tinted blue from lack of body heat. She was dead.

New panic seized him. With the crowd of concerned citizens rushing towards the mouth of the alley he knew if he didn't leave he was sure to get blamed, especially if this woman was a witch and the crowd were of the Wizarding kind. He had no choice. He was not about to take the fall for the crime of another. Heart pounding in his own terror, he rose from the crouching position he was in and was about to retreat when something caught the corner of his eye.

Whatever the woman pulled from around the attacker's neck was still in her hand. Acting on instinctual reason, he stooped to retrieve it and without looking at it, placed it in his pocket.

The sounds of the crowd were getting closer. If he didn't leave at this very instant the mob would turn vigilante and exact their vengeance on him without listening to his side of the story. Instinct for self-preservation kicked in. Without further hesitation, he broke into a run for his life, away from the scene.

The first place he went was back inside the shop where he hurriedly gathered his possessions. Everything he owned in the world had been left there and he wasn't about to leave without it. His only current means of dignity and self-worth, he would die to retrieve them because they were his; precious and personal objects. Casting a quick miniaturisation charm to shrink what wasn't in his dilapidated case, he stuffed everything inside then tucked the case under his arm and ran.

The crowd was already at the alley directly behind him, crying murder, commanding him to stop when he appeared and shouting for the police. He tried to not look back so they wouldn't see his face but by force of habit he did when they shouted out to him. But they opted to see the damage done in the alley rather than risk chasing him. He knew with dread that there was not enough distance between him and them. His breathing, already laboured and raspy from opium abuse, came in fearfull gasps that made it feel as if his heart would explode.

_Run faster! FASTER!! They will _kill_ you if they catch you!_

He chanced to look back again but nearly tripped before he could see anything so he continued straight ahead without that second glance back. His heart felt as if it was going to pound through his rib cage and his breathing was unbearable and impossible. He thought that he was going to either get lynched or collapse dead from a heart attack. Fear kept him running.

Minutes later when he knew he could run no further, he slowed down and saw that he was near Green Park. It would be a perfect place to while away time as he rested and thought of what he could do and where he could go. Taking a few moments to catch his breath, he glanced about him to check for anyone before proceeding into the oasis of tall trees and grassy meadows. Not trusting to be at the edge of the park, he walked in deep, veering off the trail and venturing into the darkness.

Finding a small thicket, he all but crumpled to the cold grass, his case beneath his head. Emotion overwhelmed him and he uncharacteristically wept softly for the first time in a very long time. Usually a collected man, seldom was his stoic façade breached by tears because he always needed to remain strong. Strong for his parents, strong for his friends, strong for Harry. But sometimes even the mightiest of warriors needed this small release and with everything weighing so heavily upon his shoulders he needed it now.

_What am I going to do?_ he wondered. _I can't stay here and risk being discovered! I refuse to be incriminated for something I tried to prevent!_

For a moment his mind went blank, numbed by terror. That woman had a name, a family, people who cared about her. Now she was a faceless victim in an alley, her killer roaming free to commit another heinous crime on someone else. Thoughts of her began to supersede the fear. Composing himself, he remembered the shiny object he plucked from the dead woman's hand.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the item and looked at it. It was an amulet of some sort, a gold chain with a gold pendant hanging from it. The thing made him remember his own adornment and he subconsciously pulled at the dog tags around his neck. This amulet was no pair of dog tags. It was an intriguing piece that he could not tear his eyes from: inscribed on the pendant was a full moon with a wolf's head pointed towards it, howling. The full moon was the first "O" in a word. Caramoor.

_Caramoor? What the hell is _that

He turned the necklace over in his hand to see if there was an inscription on the back but found it plain. Smoothing his thumb over the wolf on the front, he thought of the possibilities. Would a Muggle wear something like this? He knew particular street Muggles used such jewelry to present status of power and wealth but would it have such a specific picture on it?

He questioned its significance and meaning. Why the word Caramoor? In his travels through the world, Muggle or Wizarding, he had never come across such a place. Nor had he ever heard of it in Muggle Studies. What sort of a place could it possibly be? Is it even a place? Perhaps it was fictitious. But again, he read Muggle and Wizard literature alike and had never known any Caramoor.

The woman had torn it from the neck of her attacker so it was _his_ rather than hers. What could it mean to him? Was her attacker a _real_ werewolf? He'd heard of the attack on Auror Ajax Hammerstein and knew that Hammerstein's death was the reason for the meeting to convene on Monday. Was the attack tonight related to the attack on Ajax Hammerstein? Could it be that the woman was a witch?

He knew he would need to find a way to get a morning edition of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ to find out. News would headline the front page if she was a witch. With the outbreak of arbitrary werewolf attacks it could very well break news in the Wizarding world even if the woman was a Muggle. The victims did not matter so long as a werewolf could be blamed.

And he was a werewolf caught running from the scene. There was going to be a problem. One didn't need to be a scholar to figure that much out.

He continued to toil with Snape's suggestion of leaving London and knew it was now imperative that he did. People would be looking for him, whichever world they would be from. Besides, his thinking that he would be called upon to perform some heroic feat was why he continued to remain in London. Now his life or at the very least his freedom was in jeopardy. What was left for him here? He imagined that now Remus John Lupin was as far from everyone's mind as retirement was to a child which bothered him immensely. If he needed them to bail him out of any trouble he could be in caused by this mêlée tonight they would not be able or willing to rush to his aid.

He shuddered in thought of what would be done to him if the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures deployed the Werewolf Capture Unit for secure of his arrest. They would kowtow to every demand made by Wedgewood and Umbridge without question, making him a doomed person. He was fully aware of the tortures werewolves suffered in the Werewolf Detainment Centre and it turned his stomach.

There were tales he was once told by a young werewolf he'd met while squatting on the outskirts of Edinburgh before Dumbledore located him for the DADA job at Hogwarts. The young woman, barely of age, was quite lovely had it not been for the disfigurements caused by torture with silver she sustained in the Detainment Centre. She told him that she was left bound for hours, cold and naked, then beaten mercilessly. They touched silver to her flesh, scorching her face and thighs then using it to maim her foot. He pitied this young woman and within the week they recognised their common problem and clung to each other. He promised to kiss her mutilated flesh better and he did. Without knowing so much as each other's names, they became lovers and lived in their building of squalor, abandoned by all but them.

He knew he needed to stop foolling himself so he could move forward with his life. He needed to leave London. Start someplace new where they did not know him. Get clean. Then maybe he would be of some real use. What good was a drug addicted has-been? There was definitely going to be an inflammatory backlash and he would be the easy target to pin the crime on.

He made the final decision. He would make his way out of London. Uncertain where he would go, he knew it had to be far away. There was a deep-seated septentrional pull to trek back to Scotland within him. Maybe it was because he knew Harry was there and he still wanted to be near the son of his dearest friends to keep a protective eye out. Maybe it was because he knew Sirius would be there too. The whole idea might've been an excuse to meet up with Sirius and make amends for the second time in four months. Would it be worth it? Would Scotland be far enough an escape? He didn't know but at least he could be near Harry.

Perhaps this was fate returning him to where he belonged. Perhaps he was wrong in leaving Scotland. He should've stayed with Sirius, to be man enough to deal with the cruelty he was served with. Together he and Sirius could've kept two pairs of fatherly eyes on him. Harry was worth the sacrifice of being abused by Black. Now certain that the morning edition of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ would accuse him unjustly, he, Remus John Lupin, was a wanted criminal just like Black. There was safety in numbers.

Yes, he would leave London but only to retreat from impending danger and reunite with his long lost tyrant of a friend Sirius Black. There in whatever corner of Scotland that Sirius was hidden in, they would be safer as a pair. Eager with revelation, he pulled from his inside coat pocket a scroll of parchment, a portable bottle of ink and a quill then set to work on his opus of apology.

_Dearest Padfoot:_

_Please forgive me for my negligence in responding to your letters. I have recently run into trouble here in London and must flee the city. I will be returning to Scotland very shortly and will provide details upon my arrival. Please advise me of some place where you and I may convene to sort through our troubles. I will see you soon._

_Love,  
Moony_

Since he did not have an owl on hand, he looked around to make sure that the tall grass of the thicket sheltered him from curious eyes then charmed the parchment to form a paper owl that flew off on its own to wherever Sirius Black was hiding.


	6. Canto 2: Chapter 7

"The wolf changes his coat, but not his disposition." --Proverb

**Chapter 7**

Desperation reached an entirely new level for Lupin. Trouble had followed him before, living as a werewolf made it unavoidable, but it was always for minor things: shoplifting food or clothing, jumping the turnstile at the tube station, sleeping on park benches and such but never anything as drastic as murder. Being a werewolf rendered his very existence a guilty crime even when he did no other wrong. News of this murder would spread far and wide in both Muggle and Wizarding worlds, making his first instinct to run off to someplace secluded and secret, preferably return to Sirius' side. Perhaps things weren't so bad between them that they couldn't work it out. Black was the logical person to fall back on after the years of hardship they'd been through together. They were like brothers and he knew Sirius would have his back. If nothing else, at least they would have each other and he could grin and bear Black's abuse, trading the mistreatment for companionship and the touch of another human.

Rising from the ground, he collected his possessions and stumbled out of the thicket, cautious to remain unseen by early morning passers-by. The Sunday morning was still young enough that few people were up and about. Making haste, he found his way back to the main trail, nearly getting bowled over by a Muggle jogger who ignored his wayward apology despite the fact he was not the one in error. But a radio played in her ear and he doubted that she heard him any way. Shrugging his shoulders, he considered that at least she didn't purposely do it because she knew he was a werewolf, headed in the opposite direction of the jogger and exited the park.

Out on the city streets there were a scattered few roaming about. Those who were around took heed to purposefully avoid him, breaking his aforementioned security that they didn't know what he was. Did they sense the danger within his benign human pretence, even though they were Muggles? Could they discern that the drawn, broken man was a blood-thirsty monster beneath his skin? Did they realise that the wolf would come howling and ripping out of his body in a matter of nights? How frustrating would it be for him to spend his life hiding his lycanthropy from Wizarding society only to be discovered by a Muggle who didn't even believe in werewolves!

He trudged his way for a couple of blocks to the tube station without incident, again not receiving a pardon from this time a man who nearly shoved him down in order to ascend the stairs he was descending. Impoliteness annoyed him, especially since this was a second occurrence within minutes, but he did his best to put it aside and continue for that which was necessary.

Once on the moderately busy lower level, he halted. Sticking a hand in his pocket, he knew he did not have enough to purchase a Travelcard to take him as far as he needed to go. _Bloody hell!_ Inching backward, he loitered out of the ticket agent's view, awaiting the opportune moment to slip through.

His lingered wait wasn't long before a group of five, a pair of baby boomers with adolescent children dressed in their Sunday best and apparently on their way to morning service, came downstairs and approached the ticket booth. He sighed in envious admiration of them. If only _he_ could have a family of his own. Things would be different for him and he wouldn't be in this present predicament as he would've been home with them rather than on the streets bearing witness to a murder. Having his own family would also grant a sense of normalcy and it mattered not whether he left the Wizarding world behind forever to live as a Muggle to obtain it. Doing so would probably be better for him; maybe he'd live in Rumania to return to his roots where he could live in peace and raise his family, and then perhaps he would have enough faith to rejoin a Muggle church if for nothing more than to honour his father.

The monster-hunting profession urged Doru Lupescu to be a devout Eastern Orthodox who was open-minded enough to allow his son to decide for himself whether or not he wanted to practise the religion. Lupin tried it when he was younger and he found the repetitive routine acts of mass comfortable and placating. It was a safe rut to get stuck into. Inside a house of worship he was among Muggles, worry-free that his dirty lycanthropic secret would be uncovered. The environment of burning incense and solemn chanting provided a much needed sense of belonging that he could not find anywhere else. This was the exact feeling he had when he was in a book shop or a library. Hardly any place actually awarded him that sense of belonging which became a rare treat when he was able to enjoy it.

Shifting his attention back to the present, he waited untill the family purchased their Travelcards before discreetly aligning with them in queue. Anxiety made him fidget as the family single-filed through the turnstiles. As the last family member passed through, he rashly glanced over his shoulder at the ticket agent who made eye contact with him. Panicked, Lupin jumped over the turnstile just as the agent shouted for him to stop. The turmoil brought the family before him to a halt while simultaneously and conversely sending him into rapid motion. Muttering apologies to the young girl he inadvertently struck with his case, he raced down the tunnel to where others were awaiting the tube's arrival.

Luckily, when he stepped onto the platform the tube was pulling in the station. As the train came to a screeching stop and the doors swooshed open, he jostled a path through the exiting passengers to step into the carriage. Hoping to thwart any possible pursuers by getting lost in the sparse crowds, he gingerly walked through the carriage, opened the door at its end and entered the next one. Seconds later, the signal sounded and the doors shut before the tube roared back to life and slid away down its track like a mechanical snake.

Was he safe? Had anyone followed him? Painfully aware that he was breathless no thanks to his opiate ailments, he scanned the fellow riders accompanying him in this carriage. A nearby man and a pair of older women sitting midway inside gazed at him with wonder. All others engaged in conversation with someone next to them or read a book, a package they've purchased or the advertisements plastered on the wall. Sighing deeply, he took a seat in the corner at the farthest end and tried to blend in unseen.

The tube came and went through a number of stops while Lupin kept a bloodshot eye on those who boarded and disembarked. What a sight he must have been with his battered case and patchwork quilt-like clothes! These people just wrote him off as a transient and it broke his heart at what else they must've thought about him.

Checking which stop the tube was now pulling into, he realised that the next one would be King's Cross, which he knew would leave him near the Chapel Market, a place that would grant him easy access to steal something to eat. The urge to exit the tube filled him to the point where he perspired and began to unintentionally act suspiciously, provoked by his growling stomach. The man who stared at him previously sensed his agitation and passed him another look of confused warning. Smiling meekly at him, Lupin reacted instinctually when the train halted. Grabbing his case, he stepped off the tube then watched it glide away again, the wind it generated gusting his longish locks into his eyes.

Not sure if he made the correct choice, he took his time and followed others leaving the platform to the way out. King's Cross was a busy hub of the London Underground which teemed with the life that the other stops were lacking. This made him confident; there truly was safety in numbers. He struggled upstairs and emerged from the Underground, blinking in the grey but bright English morning light.

"Lookit _this_!" a loud female voice immediately exclaimed in close proximity to him. But he tried to ignore who he knew was an approaching prostitute. King's Cross was a dangerous, seedy section and Lupin detested being there. Even a werewolf had standards, after all. Or at least _he_ was one who did.

Nevertheless, the prostitute fell into step alongside him as he hurried his pace to avoid her.

"Are ya lookin' fer a good time?" she inquired.

"No," he retorted quietly, "but thanks any way."

"C'mon, mista! Yer fit enough. Come part'y wit' me. I'm a cheap go."

"No thanks. What little money I have is too precious to waste, no offence."

"Wot?! Are ya sayin' _I'm_ not worth _yer_ money?!"

"No, no! I didn't mean it that way! I have very little and can't afford anything outside of necessities."

"Doncha bullshit _me_, mista! 'Oo do ya think yer foolin', huh?"

"Please. I don't want any trouble…"

But the prostitute was already shouting for someone, more than likely her pimp. Lupin felt increasing dread; nothing good was going to become of this.

"Wot's goin' on 'ere, Diana?" a gruff voice asked.

It happened too quickly for the werewolf to think let alone react. The dulling of his motor reflexes by the opium did not help either. The pimp, a brutal looking bloke who impressed upon Lupin that he could chew Adam up and spit him out, confronted him. He couldn't quite recall what was said, only that he tried to back out of a pending row. Before he knew it, the man landed a closed fist square into his midsection and down he went. The prostitute kicked him, the pimp stomped him. One of them pried his case from his clutching hand then they were off.

Someone stopped to assist him, a Muggle woman who he was certain helped end the attack, asking him if he was all right. In wild disbelief, he responded that he was and leant against her for support while his equilibrium balanced. He remembered muttering that he'd been robbed of his only worldly possessions contained in the stolen case. The woman said something about how lucky he was that he came away with his life and should report the mugging.

But he didn't want to hear it. He was determined to retrieve his property. The case his parents gave him, the teddy he owned since he was a child, the clothing he spent his last bit of money on…everything was lost. Thanking the woman, he started after the thieves. Only a block away he noticed some of his things strewn about, discarded on the street as meaningless rubbish. This angered him but he was gratefull that he had nothing worth stealling. Mostly it was all of sentimental value, worthless to anyone else. Gathering his stuff, he carried on up the street, finding more of his case's contents as he went. One of the last items he found was the already-battered Ursuz which he cradled dearly to his chest. Then as he was about to mourn the loss of the case itself he spotted it a little further up.

Relieved that he managed to salvage everything, he crouched down to tuck it all back inside safely. In doing so, he noticed the quantity of items was incorrect. What did they take? Then he realised. His opium supply was gone! It made sense, as it was the only thing he owned that had street value. It was also the only thing he had to quell the pain of the looming transformation. Since he required a dose of Wolfsbane Potion and would need to arrange a meeting with Snape to get it, he decided to request the supply from Snape rather than Adam, for the Potions Master was the lesser of two evils. As much as Snape griped about addiction, even he was aware that Lupin needed more opium to subdue transformation agonies. This decision meant that he needed to find a place where he could station himself so Snape could locate him.

_I'll need to contact Severus and arrange a meeting as soon as possible! As soon as I find someplace to settle for the night! But where can I go?_

Then he got an idea.

----------------------------

Julien Charlebois stood indecisively at the door of the hut where Constantin Korzha resided, wrestling with his conscious about if it would be ethical to enter in Korzha's absence. Normally he respected a fellow werewolf's privacy and did not intrude on their personal space but Korzha's remark in the classroom the other day justified his decision and fuelled his need to know what the young pack member was conspiring. Moreover, it was to find out how far along Korzha was in his voiced conspiracies. Taking a deep, pained breath, Charlebois used the skeleton key only he was allowed to keep, unlocked the door and cautiously sauntered in, a handfull of magical fire within his palm to light the way.

The hut was expectantly dark save for the light issued by that fire cradled in his hand. Bare with the exception of a single wooden chair, a small table and a mat made of straw that served as a bed, the hut was sparse and uninviting. Once a wealthy wizard, Korzha was reduced to this not only because he was a werewolf but because it was how he shed his true identity in dedication to Ceauşescu. In his sordid past, Constantin often needed to go on hunting excursions to make interrogations and tortures for the dictator, thus learning to live as a minimalist.

But he knew Constantin Korzha well enough to know that he was narcissistic and accumulated trophies of his many heinous accomplishments. Typically those trophies were pieces of jewellery or articles of clothing. Sometimes they were news stories clipped from various papers, both Muggle and wizard, which Korzha tacked up on the walls; one side of the hut was wallpapered in them. It appeared that Constantin was a very busy werewolf indeed, whether Charlebois put him on assignment or not.

Striding towards the main wall decorated with the most clippings he quickly scanned them for incriminating evidence. They were posted chronologically from left to right and saw the one regarding the murder of Ajax Hammerstein, something that still infuriated the Alpha.

_Constantin should've known better! He needs to learn his place and not undermine my authority! There is so much dissonance created because of him!_

Then Charlebois' eyes fell on what he sought. A new article, clipped from the recent headlines of the _Daily Prophet_:

**Witch Murdered in Second Possible Werewolf Attack!**

_Wizarding socialite Abigail Proctor was found murdered last night in a Soho alley, sources say, left with her throat crushed and neck snapped. Proctor, a close associate of Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical_ _Creatures Elias Wedgewood, is believed to have been walking home from meeting friends at a Muggle restaurant when she was attacked. She was reportedly celebrating the promotion of one of those friends and was near her home when the attack occurred._

"_She was a good person," friend Rebecca Bluestar explained. "Why anyone would want to harm her is beyond me. It's just a senseless random act of violence. That's the only explanation I can give you."_

_But _was_ it just a mere random act? After the homicide of Wedgewood's Auror bodyguard Ajax Hammerstein only a few days ago it has been speculated that Wedgewood's Anti-Werewolf demonstrations are coming back to haunt him. It is strongly believed that it was a werewolf who attacked and killed Hammerstein. Hammerstein's link to Proctor is that the Auror was murdered in her flat during a business meeting between Proctor and Wedgewood. Proctor is said to have been a loyal supporter of Wedgewood's policies on creating stricter laws to protect Wizarding society against werewolves. It is also believed that the same werewolf responsible for the death of Ajax Hammerstein is responsible for that of Abigail Proctor and that this werewolf belongs to some renegade underground organisation of the creatures in question._

The article went on but every word put another crack in Charlebois' heart. Disappointed in Constantin, he regretted the day he invited him to live here despite that by doing so he'd aimed to restrict the rogue werewolf's misconduct with a close eye and a firm hand. Had he known what Korzha would turn out like he would've never associated with the youngster in the first place. Julien Charlebois tried to see the best in everyone and was let down nearly every time.

_Constantin _never_ listens! He will be our downfall! He will take away from us all that we have struggled to have!_

There were no words to describe how angry this made Charlebois. For a while all he was able to do was stand in place with his eyes shut tight, breathing erratically in rage. If Korzha had nothing to do with this particular attack then the article would not have been on his wall. It was definite confirmation for the Alpha. Something needed to be done.

Perhaps if he consulted the female in Korzha's life and convince her to repress his anger a little then the virulent young man would better be under control. Regardless of Korzha's sexism, Charlebois knew the queen always ruled the king in some way. But Charlebois released a long, defeated sigh. He wasn't sure if that would work. The female was as bad as Korzha and probably was the fuel to his fire.

Too much dissension was among werewolves already. Charlebois believed that werewolves did not need to sacrifice their humanity every day just because they were forced to sacrifice it once a month. The indignities and mistreatment from society already made it difficult to hold their civil dispositions. That was the entire purpose of this colony: to enable werewolves to live normally and peaceably among their own kind.

However, discrepancies still arose. Korzha was a radical and many shared his militant beliefs. They wanted to fight and kill, to thwart the Wizarding world and rule it with the same iron fist that they were ruled under. The creation always turns against its creator and the Wizarding world fashioned monsters out of werewolves every day. Thus, Korzha's militant behaviour was understandable albeit improper. Two wrongs did not make a right and it increasingly became apparent that Korzha was poised to take his fight to the Wizarding authorities in the worst of ways.

However Charlebois knew of other werewolves who agreed with _his_ point of view too. Fewer in number, they were still out there. If he could bring them to the colony then perhaps they would epitomise all that this movement stood for and set good examples for the rest.

That was the reason for his interest in Remus Lupin. Lupin was both a noted hero and a scourge to werewolf society. With a past employment as a professor at prestigious Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore as a trusting reference, he was a fine specimen to draw in. After Charlebois heard that Lupin resigned from his position and was again unemployed, he rapidly devised a plot to coax him into joining the group. A known war hero in spite of the Potter scandal at Godric's Hollow that marred his reputation as a loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, he would be a valuable asset to Charlebois' goals.

He expected that in giving Korzha the assignment of tracking Lupin down the impulsive youngster would learn a thing or two from the werewolf who lived better than the rest of them. At the very least, he hoped that Lupin would be able to convince Korzha to resign his militant activity and become more involved in legal, amiable ways to struggle against oppression.

At least he could hope. Dreaming the positive never hurt. With what was pinned up on this wall of disgrace it was a long shot.

----------------------------

Sunday service was excruciating for Gabriel Phellan that morning. His back had been hurting him since the night before but, like always, he made no visible complaint and carried on with the sermon as if all was well, secretly grimacing when he was masked by objects and ritual. But he knew he was not foolling his crafty nephew Caden, primly seated with Caileigh in the front row.

After service was completed he dodged his way through groups of parish and congregation members alike, politely shaking their hands and greeting them untill he managed to duck tactfully behind stage. There, he immediately dipped into the pocket of his trousers and produced a small brown prescription bottle. Vicodin: taken for a once broken back suffered after falling from the roof of his Ireland cottage while making repairs. He did not agree with taking it but the great pain made him dependent of it. He'd even gotten used to prudently swallowing them dry, like he did now.

"Uncle Gabe?" a voice he knew was Caden's addressed from behind. "Are you all right?"

Gabe smiled before he turned around to meet the teen's inquisitive face.

"Yes, Caden, I am. Thank you so very much for your concern. Where's Caileigh?"

"Out with Mrs. Abbott. She frets over us too much. I can't bear it."

"She's always been the mother hen type…"

"And she pities the poor orphans."

"You aren't orphans. Your home is with me. Mrs. Abbott is a good woman, Caden, give her some leniency."

"Yes, Uncle Gabe," the boy returned with all the possible condescension of his age.

"Go back out there and tend to your sister. Take her back to the house and give her something to eat. I will be there in a short while."

"All right." Then disbelievingly questioned again: "You _sure_ you're fine?"

Gabe smiled a second time, admiring his nephew's persistence.

"Positively. Now go. Don't leave Caileigh to her own devices again."

Without further word Caden went back out to the auditorium. Gabe sighed, shaking his head.

He adored the children but they were young and he was not. Caden was equally a handfull and a blessing while in his typical yet dreadfull rebellious stage which no parent ever wanted to see.

His heart sank in thinking that his beloved sister never got to see this age of infamy. He knew it was wrong to hate her husband but Gabe could not help it. The man was a heathen any way the reverend looked at it. It was unchristian of him to not forgive but in this case he considered forgiveness a divine mercy and he never claimed to be a god.

The children were his life now and he adored them both. If anything happened to them he would happily condemn himself to Hell for neglect. With his sister dead, they were his only living relatives which constituted another reason for his overt protectiveness. They were the purpose behind his crusade against the covert Wizarding world most people had no clue even existed. Magic and that wizard brother-in-law of his were the reasons his sister was dead, why his niece and nephew were orphaned and he felt compelled to speak out against magical practises as frequently as he could, reverend or not.

He saw magical inclinations in the children he cared for, particularly in Caden. He knew that Caden was well aware of what his father had been and was disgruntled that he was forbidden to follow in his father's preternatural footprints. Worse, Caden's suppressed magic was _strong_.

_The Devil is a determined fiend!_ thought Gabe bitterly.

Gabriel Phellan was not a cruel man by any standards. He was kind and generous, willing to give his last scrap of food to a starving person or his last pence to someone in need. Caden knew this and Gabe knew that Caden knew it. But when it came to the unruly teen and his sister, Gabe needed to take a firmer grasp of the reins. His greatest fear was to lose them in any way and especially by way of magic.

Magic was the dark cloud that hung over their heads. It would always be an issue in their lives yet Gabe knew that ultimately he would have to submit to the hard, cold fact that Caden had a magical destiny. His nephew was old enough to think for himself and Caileigh was swiftly approaching that age too. Sooner than he liked to imagine he could not continue denying Caden that destiny much longer. Fate, after all, had a habit of finding its own mysterious way of coming about.

_All I can do is hope to stave it off one day longer!_

Thoughtfully rattling the bottle of Vicodin in the palm of his hand, Gabe retuned it to his pocket and, with the ache in his back now in his heart, walked out into the auditorium again to speak with members of the congregation.

----------------------------

Caden sat on the swing in the garden, gently swaying back and forth as he thought about nothing in particular. He shivered a little as the breeze picked up, whisking a few locks of his long dark tresses into his eyes that he grumpily brushed back behind his ear. Lighting a cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes he concealled inside his jacket when he affirmed that Uncle Gabe was not yet around to catch him, he took a few long drags to help himself relax.

Then _she_ appeared, giving him a start when she stepped out from behind the trees and hedges to his left.

"Cor!" he exclaimed, impulsively rising from the swing. "Scare the fuck outta me, yeah?"

The woman smiled saccharine sweet and apologically.

"I am so very sorry," she remarked, her voice lyrical with a lovely French accent that befit her fragile form. "I did not mean to frighten you. I am only looking for my cat. 'Ave you seen 'im?"

Caden shook his head, taking another drag from the cigarette and doing his best James Dean to impress the beautifull young blonde woman in front of him.

"Not a whisker," he told her, hoping she was falling for his charms. He was _such_ a ladies' man. Cobras could be charmed by him.

"Oh." The French beauty pouted. "Can you 'elp me find 'im? I am new 'ere; I've just arrived from Finland and–"

"_Finland_? You sound _French_."

The woman blushed and nodded.

"Oui, I _am_ French but I lived in Finland for a few years now. Any way, my name is Victorine."

Caden accepted her delicate hand into his, kissed it then introduced himself. This woman's presence commanded courtesy even from the snottiest of teens.

"Would you please 'elp me find my cat, Caden? I do not know what I would do if I lose 'im. 'E is my only companion."

"Sure. What does it look like?"

Caden suddenly noticed that Victorine wasn't looking at him but over his shoulder at something else. Insulted that her eyes were not upon him, he turned around to see what she was looking at instead of him. He found Caileigh, frozen in place and staring back at the lovely intruder. The girl suddenly ran back towards the house without uttering a word.

"That's just Caileigh," dismissed Caden as he turned to Victorine again. "She's only five. She's weird."

Victorine smiled and Caden felt better now that her attention was back on him.

"I don't mind," insisted Victorine. "I so love children." Then she grew serious. "If _she_ is five 'ow old does that make _you_?"

"Uh, sixteen," Caden lied. When he noticed her slight glower he readily added, "A _mature_ sixteen. By the way, you _are_ aware that sixteen _is_ the age of legal consent in merry old England."

"But of course." Her smile was better than a refreshing summer breeze. "Now would you be so kind as to assist me?"

"What colour is your cat?"

"'E is black and white with stripes."

"Excuse me, young lady?" Caden groaned in recognition of Uncle Gabe's voice drifting from behind him. "May I be of some assistance for you?"

"Shit!" complained the boy, trying unsuccessfully to put out his cigarette on the sole of one of his trainers.

Victorine again turned her attention from Caden, this time directing it to Uncle Gabe. Despite his imposing authoritarian presence, Gabriel Phellan was an unassuming average sized man neither too tall nor too short as he was neither thin nor portly. Caden sourly viewed his uncle as being plain old common. The boy wondered how a ravishing beauty such as himself could stem from the same gene pool as someone so…ordinary.

"Possibly," Victorine purred. "I 'ave lost my beloved pet and your son was 'elping me look for 'im."

Caileigh reappeared, rushing over to Uncle Gabe and taking his hand. The sullen expression his little sister had on her face while fixated on the woman disturbed the teen.

"I haven't seen you around before," Uncle Gabe commented, his voice even and inconspicuous.

"I am new to the neighbourhood. My name is Victorine Lune."

She proffered her hand to Uncle Gabe who shook it respectfully. Caden rolled his eyes. _So_ ordinary.

"Good to meet you, Miss Lune. I'm Reverend Gabriel Phellan. This is my niece Caileigh. You've already met my nephew Caden."

Victorine smiled radiantly once more, saying, "Oui. Caden 'as been most 'elpfull to me already."

"As untimely as this may seem I'd like to welcome you to our neighbourhood and extend an invitation for you to join us for service tonight at St. John's. It would be unchristian of me to not do so."

Victorine grew noticeably perturbed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Perhaps she was an atheist, judged Caden.

"_Merci_, reverend. If I finish unpacking in time I will try to make it."

"We would love to have you and any loved ones you have to join us. You've also made perfect time for our New Members Social next Sunday afternoon. You don't need to _be_ a member of the church to come but I guarantee you will be after you leave."

"Merci, zat is very generous of you. I will sincerely try." Her eyes darted someplace else and she unexpectedly burst in a fit of joy. "Mon dieu! Zere 'e is!"

Everyone else surveyed the garden in assorted directions but no-one found a cat nearby.

"Excusez-moi, I must go. I will see you later."

Then she was off, back from whence she sprang. Caden was mildly disappointed.

"Caden," summoned Uncle Gabe. "Haven't I told you to wear more than a leather jacket when you're outdoors? It's blustery today and you'll catch your death."

"Yes, uncle," the teenager responded patronisingly.

"And was that a cigarette I saw you put out? I told you to quit that filthy habit. Hand me the pack."

Caden groaned but knew complaint was futile. He removed the pack of Lucky Strikes from the pocket inside his jacket and handed them over to his uncle, a scowl marring his pretty face.

"Get inside and set the table for dinner," the good reverend instructed. "Wash up and when you come back outside put on something warmer than a T-shirt and a leather jacket."

"Yes, sir," grumbled Caden.

As the teenager strode in the direction of the house, he muttered Gaelic curses under his breath.

"Don't think you'll be exonerated for cursing me in another language, young man!" warned Uncle Gabe. "I happen to know that language as well!"

Caden glared back over his shoulder to flash his uncle the evils when he noticed Victorine, now standing hidden behind the tree but still watching the familial events unfold. Seeing him catch a glimpse of her, she offered a secretive smile and a small wave. He returned a devious half smile then continued into the house, wondering where the hell that cat was.

----------------------------

Lupin staggered up the street, still hindered by his need for more opium. He'd been walking all day just to keep warm and contemplated visiting the Chapel Market to steal something to eat. Too honest for his own good, he detested stealling because the only thing he did to earn the right to eat was not getting caught. But eating was a vital necessity and without money he needed to resort to thievery.

Trudging to the market took every bit of his physical reserves and he knew his waifish body appeared to be salvaged from Death's very claws in the eyes of those he passed. For the most part they didn't bother with the dishevelled, sickly werewolf and for that he was gratefull. But entering the marketplace was another story. Wary and experienced merchants eyed him as he strolled by, hungrily gazing at the fresh fruits and vegetables displayed in their crates, boxes or in bowls.

First he inched through a few stalls examining the food available, trying to make it appear as if he intended to make an honest purchase. The cagey vendors watched as he passed through, pausing to squeeze this or smell that. The process was long and difficult because he wanted to forget himself and ravenously sink his teeth into the fruit's flesh.

It was in the fourth booth when he finally dared to slip a few things into his pockets when the vendor turned to help a real customer. He discreetly stuffed his pockets with as much as he could before the merchant's eyes found him once more. By that time he was moving up the alley and on to the next stall where he repeated the process. At last he managed to acquire enough that he left the market and searched for a place to eat in peace.

He located one in an alley where, upon the moment he sat, he greedily tore into a large apple, devouring it completely: core, seeds and all, throwing only the stem to the ground. Waste not, want not. Fumbling through his pockets with hands unsteady from starvation, he pulled out a second apple and ate in an identical manner, the sticky juice running in rivulets between his fingers and down the back of his hand. Paying it no mind, he repeated the process with a peach then a couple of carrots, wiping the dirt off on his coat before eating.

His gluttony was ceased only when his stomach was pierced by an uneasily sharp pain and a complainant grumble. Putting a hand over his abdomen to help stop the discomfort, he held his breath and swore then resorted to prayer for it to subside. At last it did for which he was gratefull and decided to stop to allow his body to finish digesting what he'd already eaten.

One resolved problem soothed his mind to bring about another. Inactivity refreshened guilt for not being able to save the female victim in the alley and he reached into his case for the Caramoor amulet he'd misguidedly taken from her. Thinking again of how much of a deadly incompetent beast he was, in reaching for the amulet his fingers instead stumbled on the plain wooden box that contained the cold metal salvation of the gun.

The last time he'd actually set eyes upon that gun before Snape presented it to him had been when he was a child of five. The gun was the very same one Tanti Alina made an attempt on his life with that day when he was beneath the Reading Tree. Lupin kept the gun, hidden away inside its case, in his possession always to serve as a reminder of how quickly those who supposedly loved you could try to harm you. Unfortunate circumstances could effortlessly bring out the worst in any given person and despite the fact that Lupin tried to always see only the good in others, the gun brought him back to his senses.

As a werewolf, he could trust few people. Unquestionably one of the people he ever put a great deal of trust in was, of course, Albus Dumbledore. It was because of this faith that the werewolf bequeathed the precious weapon to the old wizard during his stay at Hogwarts. He relayed the gun's history, explained that it was a powerfull keepsake of the time prior to the infamous bite of Greyback. When he told Dumbledore the story of how he acquired the gun and to whom it once belonged the Headmaster was touched and reduced to tears.

"_You must hide this," Lupin asked of Dumbledore. "Inside the chamber of this gun is a single silver bullet. Should I ever become uncontrollable or, Merlin forbid if I harm anyone and I mean anyone at all, you _must_ use it to put me down. I need your most honourable word on this matter. Then and only then will I accept your proposal to be employed here at Hogwarts."_

_Taking the gun, Dumbledore nodded agreement._

"_I will put it in a safe place," the old man stated. "With the use of Wolfsbane Potion I trust we will never need it and if you ever choose to end your employment for other pursuits then I shall return it to you."_

In his haste to leave before the school was teeming with owls from enraged parents Lupin felt shame in that he would leave behind such an important item. It _would've_ been Snape who'd remember the weapon of destruction that could snuff out the life of who he believed to be an enemy. Sighing, he knew the bitter Potions Master would never accept apologies from either him or Sirius; not that stubborn Sirius would want to give them in the first place. Then just as quickly as they changed to the fleeting topics, his streamlined thoughts drifted to more pleasant imaginings with Sirius.

_Sirius…I will be with you again soon. Then I will say my good-bye and finish it._

Peering up at the sky, he felt the full moon as it was fast approaching. Being that he was so close and it was his safest bet, he decided that he would take refuge in Hampstead Heath for a while so that he might recuperate. The Heath's grounds would provide him with quiet, water and shelter as well work as a landmark enabling him to obtain his certain and specific supplies.

Sighing resignation, he decided to begin his foot journey to Hampstead Heath before it time grew any later. At the slow pace he would need to travel in he hoped to make it there by dusk at least. With a groan of pain as his brittle bones creaked he began walking. The good thing about walk other than the exercise it gave him which afforded his muscles strength to cope with the lycanthropic change was that it also helped generate body heat for him. It made him wish he could remain perpetually mobile in some way so that he could maintain the needed warmth. The Heath would provide enough seclusion to enable him to build a fire and the promise of heat inspired him to move faster.

At one point he stumbled and nearly fell, needing to steady himself against the corner wall of a random building, glancing at his and noticing a booklet of matches resting on the ground. The thought emerged that it would probably be a good idea if he used them to light a fire because employing his wand to do so would leave behind a trail of magic that would create a means of tracing his whereabouts and since he was planning on reuniting with Sirius it would be unwise. Stooping down, he picked up the matches, placed them in his pocket and continued to lurch onward, wishing he would get there already so that he might find solace and shelter in the obscurity of a thicket.

For the moment sleep was the only thing that mattered to him. Getting it would be as sweet as chasing the dragon would be.

----------------------------

"You aren't going out again tonight are you?" Caleigh whined as she entered Caden's room before supper that evening.

"Mind your own business, kid," Caden advised, bringing what he planned to wear later from the wardrobe to the foot of his bed.

"I don't like you going out there by yourself in the dark," his sister complained. "You're going to get hurt."

"You tell me that every time, Caleigh, and so far I'm fine. Nothing is going to hurt me out there. I go out there a billion times and nothing's happened yet. Now c'mon, won't you? Gimme a break."

"But if something happens to you I'll be all alone."

The worried sentiment chipped at Caden's bad boy attitude and his shoulders slumped in surrender.

"You _won't_ be alone, Caleigh," he insisted, sitting on the bed and motioning for her to sit on his lap. "If something ever does happen to me you will still have Uncle Gabe."

"It won't be the same," she insisted, her voice small.

"But nothing's going to happen so I'll be here when you wake up in the morning."

"Promise?"

"Of course I promise, silly."

He kissed her forehead and hugged her securely against him.

"That woman in the garden today is bad," she blurted out quite at random.

Anything to do with Victorine Lune grabbed Caden's attention regardless.

"Who? The woman looking for her cat?" Of course he knew precisely to whom his sister was referring.

Caleigh nodded.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know," she professed with a shrug.

"Then you can't say someone's bad unless you have a foundation to base it on. It isn't fair if you do."

"You _liked_ her."

"So what if I did?"

"She could hurt you."

Caden smirked.

"I'd be counting on that," he muttered.

Uncle Gabe called them down for supper from the first level and Caden assisted his sister in sliding off his lap.

"C'mon, ankle biter, I'm famished," the boy told his sister.

"What's famished?"

"Means if you don't go downstairs I'll eat _you_."

He wiggled his fingers in mock attack and growled playfully, making Caleigh shriek with joy and race from the room. He heard her thudding retreat down the stairs and smiled warmly. He loved the little creep.

----------------------------

Guilt beleaguered Evangeline for being too fatigued to stop by and check on the safehaven that evening but it could not be helped. Throughout the day she ran her errands which included purchasing food for the hungry werewolves who lived in the safehaven. It was their hunger that made her regret the choice so deeply but she reasoned that they could manage to get by for the night on something in the house. The cupboards weren't entirely bare. If it wasn't for the strictly enforced curfew she would've requested one of them to pick supplies up.

_They're a tough bunch_, she reasoned. _They'll be fine. It's just for one night._

Yet the malefaction still did not wane. She cooked a simple meal of pasta al dente for herself which she complemented with a glass of red wine but when she sat down and began to eat her blame made it difficult for her to swallow. Here she was seated at a table in her own flat while the werewolves sat in their cramped quarters searching the nearly empty cupboards for something to have for their supper. Her thoughts robbed her of an appetite and she found herself scraping her meal off the plate into the waste bin. Taking her glass of wine and the bottle, she ventured into the lounge.

Her dog eared copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets awaited her, resting on a cushion of the settee and she picked it up, easily opening it to the marked page she'd left off on. Sipping her wine intermittently, she read on, not paying much mind to the words impressed in ink on the yellowed pages. Her eyes felt as worn as those pages and she scrunched them to drive out their ache. Closing the book, she stretched across the settee, expecting to rest her eyes for but a moment.

Tomorrow morning she would square off against the DRCMC in an attempt to rationalise with their pea brains and earn werewolves a few small dignities as well as hopefully shed a fraction of doubt in at least one of their minds that not all werewolves were responsible for the random violence of a roguish band of miscreants. It took a person of narrow mind to lump all into the category set aside by few. Not everyone was the same. Good and bad lay within each individual and it was up to that person which one lay dormant and which presented itself to the world. But werewolves had admitted probable cause to behave like monsters. Given the ill treatment of these poor creatures it was no wonder they chose to exacerbate their inner beast.

Stirring into a more comfortable position, she sighed and thought of the werewolves who were lucky enough to receive the shadow of normalcy within the walls of her contentious safehavens. Unwanted by the neighbourhood people, the werewolves vied to carry out decent lives placed inside these boarding houses, coming and going discreetly so as to not rouse troublesome or suspicious interest. With the exception of one particular young werewolf, all others in the safehavens wanted to blend in and remain unnoticed, going out of their way to do so, including maintaining a preference for entering and exiting out the back or side ways rather than out the front.

She wondered how the werewolves already housed there would react to Remus Lupin should she manage to have him fill the single vacancy at the main safehaven. If open-mindedness was preserved then Lupin had much to offer his fellow werewolves. But she assumed it would be a difficult transition to undergo and maintain an acceptance for a werewolf who got paid to live among the Wizards, going so far as to walk among the prestigious halls of Hogwarts. Some werewolves would argue that it was a certain arrogance that allowed him to move so freely amongst the Wizards and be bold enough to earn salary for it. They would exhibit an animosity that she would have to be prepared to mediate. What fun it would be!

She imagined at least _one_ werewolf would welcome Lupin with open arms. Easy was the most benevolent person she'd ever met werewolf, Wizard or Muggle. He was the scholarly type, as was Lupin, and would no doubt relish in the other werewolf's presence. Easy had problems making friends and spent a majority of his time alone reading books or working in a cellar laboratory on potions that those who declared himself his enemies and tormentors would benefit from. Addition of Lupin would promise Easy a camaraderie he sorely needed and that prospect alone made Evangeline's heart leap. It was an incentive that made it a more attractive idea to place the famed werewolf inside a safehaven, _the_ safehaven where Easy resided.

Yawning, she stretched a second time and groggily rose to her feet, checking the time on the grandfather clock across the room. It was getting far too late for wearing her already tired mind down further by reading the written word or thinking the planned ideas. There was an important meeting which needed to be contended with in the morning and she knew she would need to be well rested to sharpen her wits against the gaggle of prejudicial cranks. Trudging into the bedroom, she snapped off the light on her way out of the lounge. As she walked passed the window a case of the creeps and a fresh coat of goose flesh made the hair on her arms stand up straight. Giving them a baffled glance, she rubbed her arms and continued walking, unaware that a figure blackened by the cover of night stood statue-like out in the garden, watching intently.


End file.
